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"A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB" 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


EMILY  THACHER  BENNETT 
Author  of  * '  Song  of  the  Rivers  " 


'  A  little  pause  in  life  while  daylight  lingers, 
Between  the  sunset  and  the  pale  moonrise. 
When  daily  labor  slips  from  weary  fingers, 
And  soft  gray  shadows  veil  the  aching  eyes." 


THE  NEELY  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK    .:.    CHICAGO    •:.    LONDON 


o    o     •    «c>*   *'t.e  •     •     fie    c         I',    «?   < 


DeDfcatfon: 

IN  LOVING  R£M£MBRANC£  OF  OUR  SISTER. 


M191S21 


>      '    1   J      ■«   J 


A  BIED  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB. 

What  name  is  thine?    Art  more  than  voice 

Song-bird  thou  canst  not  be! 
Thou  seemest  neither  to  rejoice 

Nor  mourn,  with  tones  so  free! 

With  slow,  delaying,  pilgrim  feet, 

Like  one  within  the  vail, 
I  pause  to  rest,  and  tones  more  sweet 

Commingle  with  thy  wail! 

Lo!  all  the  choristers  of  Spring, 

Around  this  holy  spot. 
Tender  returning  strophes  sing, 

For  Lincoln  unforgot! 


Beside  Ohio's  curving  stream, 
On  that  death-darkened  morn. 

The  rush  of  an  appalling  dream 
To  my  young  ears  was  born. 

Assassination!     Ingrate  word! 

Millions  wept  long  and  sore; 
My  little  life  was  sadly  stirred, — 

Time  moved  it  more  and  more. 

Oh,  priceless  boon!     I've  lived  to  count 
My  country's  pulse  with  mine; 

In  love  to  climb  this  sacred  mount 
That  holds  this  precious  shrine! 

What  more  is  grief,  or  bliss,  or  care, 
The  space  left  one  to  breathe? — 

Hands  that  have  touched  this  granite  fair 
No  other  urn  would  wreathe. 

The  lilacs  of  that  April  day 
Drooped  when  our  Martyr  fell. 

When  his  vast  land  in  mourning  lay. 
And  none  its  woe  could  tell. 


"A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOI        • 

Pity  the  woman's  heart  that  here 

No  dew  hath  left  to  shed! 
Condole  the  man  who  owns  no  tear 

Tor  this  most  noble  dead! 

We  charge  you,  guard  his  ashes  well! 

From  year  to  year  your  guard 
The  pathos  of  his  death  shall  tell, — 

No  more  could  bay  or  bard. 

Statesman  of  his  devoted  State, 

Where  once  the  Illini 
Numbered  their  hordes,  a  people  great 

For  progress  doomed  to  die. 

We  of  the  Commonwealth  implore, 
Me  charge,  aye,  we  command, 

Watch  you  his  rest  f orevermore, 
So  long  his  fame  shall  stand! 


EENEWAL. 

Deep  in  the  solemn  groves  of  pine. 
Within  the  sounds  of  distant  mills, 
I  saw,  between  two  sister  hills, 

A  fringed  and  golden  orchis  shine. 

The  trees  like  spires  ascended  tall, 

Their  earthmost  branches  narrowed  low; 
And  oft  their  singing  tones  would  flow 

To  meet  a  cadenced  waterfall. 

My  orchis — it  was  mine  and  God's — 

Had  but  a  little  light  c.nd  space 

Wherein  to  grow  and  say  its  grace. 
Where  naught  else  bloomed  nor  greened  the  sods. 

The  pungent  odor  of  the  woods, 
The  yellowed  spines  that  once  were  leaves. 
All  o'er  the  ground  like  shattered  sheaves, 

Toxa  Melancholy's  favorite  moods. 

One  day  I  had  complained  and  sighed. 
As  many  a  traveling  soul  has  done. 
For  something  never  found  or  won — 

Ideals  and  hopes  ungratifled. 


BIRD  VOICES. 

And  now  I  said,  "  Love  "  is  not  love  ! 
Let  life  the  softer  word  supplant, 
High  heaven    the  crown  unfading  grant, 

Nor  trusted  be  earth  s  mask  of  love! 

Alone  I  sat  in  that  dun  shade 
Beside  the  glorious  orchid  flower, 
One  sad,  retrieving  Autumn  hour, 

And  culled  a  thoufht  that  shall  not  fade. 

I  dared  not  break  its  slender  stem. 
The  solitary  spike  that  grew. 
Denied  a  bath  of  nectar  dew, 

Bival  of  Beauty's  diadem! 

If  stars  in  the  celestial  sphere 
Are  thoughts  of  God    rom  age  to  age. 
Flowers,  the  lovely  and  the  sage, 

Bring  angel  melitations  near. 

Sweet  messengers  of  all  that's  fair. 
Blooming  below  so  bright  and  brief; 
Stigma,  stamen  and  iris  leaf, 

Shall  be  renewed — the  tale's  not  rare. 

No  mystery  of  love  or  law 
Is  more  mysterious  than  bloom; 
Cause,  germ,  result  the  tomb. 

One  Mind  forecast,  one  Eye  foresaw. 

My  orchis  blossomed  many  a  day; 
It  faded  never — faith  remains 
To  bear  the  soul  from  grief  and  stains 

And  all  the  legions  of  decay. 


BIRD    VOICES. 

We  list  them  in  our  Northern  clime. 

We  near  to  Nature's  heart, — 
More  happily  than  where  the  lime, 
And  kindred  trees  impart 
Perpetual  joy  of  bloom, 
And  fruits  of  rich  perfume. 

More  precious  when  the  wintry  snows, 

And  tempest  cold  are  gone; 
When  once  again  unfolds  the  rose 
And  lily,  'neath  the  sun. 
In  free,  unprisoned  air 
Of  wayside  and  parterre. 


"A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

To-day  I  listened— •  Can  it  be?  " 

I  said  with  none  to  hear; 
The  Robin's  call  so  clear  and  free, 
From  city  house-top  near! 
Toward  an  unbuilded  nest 
The  bird  had  paused  to  rest. 

0  voice  attuned  so  pure  and  sweet. 
By  no  measured  "  scale  "  of  art! 

In  music  God  bestowed,  complete. 
Fearless  of  man  or  mart! 
Bird,  cleaving"  atmospheres, 
What  mean  these  timid  tears? 

1  see  thee  not,  and  thou  art  gone. 
With  thy  love-panting  breast;  — 

A  memory  for  me  alone, 
Dear,  unexpected  guest! 
Thou  hast  no  thought  for  me 
But  I  am  glad  for  thee! 


'Brave  Roderick,   though   the  tempest   roar, 
It  may  but  thunder  and  pass  o'er." 

—Sir  Walter  Scott. 
There's  a  scent  of  roses  on  the  air, 

A  heaven  in  the  wave; 
The  lilies  by  the  rill  have  bloomed. 

And  green  is  "  Robie's  "  grave; 
'Tis  spring  again— I  feel  its  power. 

Though  sadder  than  before 
Are  all  its  forms  of  loveliness, 

On  island,  sea  or  shore; 
But  why  this  more  than  restless  life? 

O  why  these  gloomy  hours? 
Friends  love  me  still;  and  song  is  mine, 

And  hope  still  dews  its  flowers; 
Alas!     my  native  land,  alas! 

Thick  clouds  obscure  its  stars, 
It's  flags  bright  folds  do  not  conceal 

The  thunder-bolts  of  Mars! 
Columbia!  my  heart  expands 

In  hopes  wild  thrill  for  thee. 
Thou  gem  of  ocean's  wide  expanse 

Elysium  of  the  free! 
My  soul,  be  not  despondent  now, 

implore  Jehovah's  hand — 
The  God  of  Justice,  Love,  and  Truth, 
^.   iTo  save  my  Fatherland! 


LIGHT  AND  SHADE. 


LIGHT  AND  SHADE. 

Spring"  suns  have  lit  the  hills, 
Late  frosts  congealed  the  rills, 
And  from  the  rainbow's  wreath 
Hues  of  forboding  death 

Have  painted  autumn's  leaf;  — 
Spring  hath  unfolded  flowers, 
Soft  summers  sat  in  bowers 

Of  bloom  and  shade  and  sheaf; — 
Beauty  hath  sung  her  songs 
To  all  Earth's  moving  throngs, 
Till  thou  and  I,  at  last. 
Have  met  as  in  the  past, — 
Met  once  again,  to  sigh 
With  memory  in  "  good-by." 

O  life  so  sweet  and  grand! 
O  Friendship  clasping  hand! 
Let  no  unsunned  complaint 
Our  graceful  feeling  taint; 

No  rankling  fruitlessness 
Retard  the  growing  tree 
Of  life's  felicity;. 

Nor  force  to  growth's  excess 
A  labyrinth  of  thought. 
Till  damps  of  ruin  wrought 
With  love's  unseen  decay, 
Blossom  and  bud  betray. 

Though  hands  unclasped  reach  forth 
Toward  West,  or  East,  or  North, 
Through  slow  and  changeful  years; 
Though  unillumined  tears 
Wet  solitary  cheeks. 
While  tides  of  annual  weeks 
Move  down  the  plains  of  time; 
j-hough  bells  of  sorrow  chime. 
And  life's  lone  labor  lays 
Across  the  heart's  fair  ways 
Obstructions  hard  and  vast, — 
Stil  hope  unto  the  last. 


10  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMa»» 


A    LAMENT. 

There's   something   in   the  world 

That  I  have  never  found; 
It  hath  an  ancient  name. 
With  a  complacent  sound; 
Methinks  it  blossom'd  like  old  Aaron's  rod, 
In  mystic  times  beneath  the  smile  of  God. 

Poets  have  hymned  its  rare, 

Unchanging  attributes; 
Philosophers  declare 

It  once  bore  golden  fruits; 
God's  children  seek  it  o'er  the  Christian  earth 
Sorrow^  is  loth  to  credit  its  pure  birth. 

Millions  have  lived  and  died, 

Nor  left  a  word  or  sign 
Of  gratitude  for  this 
Sweet  ministry  divine; 
And  T,  alas!  not  blind,  may  do  the  same— 
I  only  know  its  honest  fame  and  name. 

This  treasure  so  supreme 

Is  rarely  known  to  kings; 
It  loves  the  cots  and  dells 

Where   daisy   verdure    springs; 
And  never  laid  its  peaceful  head  upon 
Imperial  pillows  made  of  eider-down. 

Friends  do  ye  ask  me  why 

My  manhood's  hasting  years 
Have  faided  to  find  this  cure 
For  multiplying  years? 
This  potent  "stone,"  "elixir,"  "amulet"— 
This  wealth  that  never  bought  a  coronet! 

First  let  me  speak  its  name, 

Then  look  into  your  souls. 
And  put  the  question  home. 
Where  thought's  vast  current  rolls; 
And  ye  may  know  the  mighty  reason  why 
Ye  never  were  content,  nor  ever  I. 


EASTERN  OFFERINGS.  H 


EASTERN  OFFERINGS. 

Meek  Mary  Magdelene! 
In  all  the  ages  gone, 

The  sacred  story  told  of  thee, 
When  rose  the  Holy  One, 
Hath  never  lost  its  power. 

And  now  the  Easter  dawning, 
With  rose  and  lily-bloom, 

Commemorates  the  morning, 
When  "  first  beside  the  tomb," 
Thy  heart  bemoaned  the  hourl 

Lo!  angels   fair   and   shining, 

Where  "  the  stone  was  rolled  away 

And  One  thy  grief  divining 
More  glorious  than  they, 
Divinely  called  thee, — "  Mary!  " 

O  woman  like  no  other 

Favored  upon  the  earth. 
Save  her  the  Saviour's  mother; 

His  resurrection  birth 

First  spoke  thy  name — 'twas  Mary  I 


TO  AN  EDITOR  ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY. 

O  fair  as  scenes  Elysian! 
O  bright  as  stars  that  burn 
In  summer's  cloudless  skies, 
For  thee  be  Hope's  sweet  vision 
Upon  thy  day's  return — 
Presaging  Paradise! 

Serene,  with  memories  tender. 

Look  on  thy  noble  past; 
Some  fadeless  bloom  and  splendor 

In  its  horoscope  were  cast; 


12  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

Some  shadows  from  life's  mountains 

Fell  often  on  thy  ways; 
While  joys  like  gems  o'er  fountains, 

Have  crowned  thy  gentle  days! 

Light  ineffable  is  near  thee, 

While  slow  thy  sun  declines; 
Justice  and  truth  endear  thee 

To  Tpen  of  taintless  minds; 
And  tho'  perversion  try  thee, 

Never  thy  soul  will  yield; 
To  sordid  schemes — nought  buy  thee — 

A  traitor  for  a  Potter's  field! 


EASTER    MORNING. 

A  morn  it  was  like  this; 
First   numbered    in    the    "  Christian   Years; 

Judea's  temples  shone 

For  God:  for  Christ  the  Son 
His  sad  disciples  in  their  tears, 

Through  dreary  days  and  nights 

Saw  not  the  starry  lights. 

A  shining  morn  like  this; 
Succeeding  one  of  doleful  loss. 

When  in  their  love  and  gloom 

Early  around  the  tomb, 
The  Marys  of  the  holy  Cross 

Dolorous,  sighed  and  stood, 

In  mournful  atitude. 

A  morn  of  hope  like  this: — 
"Mary!  "  the  living  Saviour  said; — 
Hearts  never  thrilled  like  hers, 
Lovers  or  worshippers, — 
No  horoscope  of  time 
Forecast  that  scene  sublime  I 

A  vernal  day  like  this; 
In  that  prophetic  long  ago;  — 

New  stir  of  lustrous  streams  I 

Beauty's  enchanting  dreams!' —  ' 
O  hallowed  season  long  ago, 

By  dual  rainbows  spanned, 

From  gates  to  Beulah  Land. 


TESTIMONIES.  13 


On  that  fair  day  like  this; 
In  bright  and  sacred  Palestine 

Eang-  no  funeral  bell; 

There  for  the  Israel 
Of  God,  arose  The  Prince  divine, 

From  His  so  transient  grave, 

Believing  souls  to  save. 

On  that  spring  day  like  this, 
Olives  anear  Jerusalem, 

And  precious  Calvary, 

In  dark  green  lacery 
Symboled  for  peace  with  silent  hymn; 

And  lilies  smiled  more  sw^eet 

Before  His  noiseless  feet. 

That  Easter  day  like  this 
Perfume  of  Earth's  most  regal  flower, 

From  Old  Damascus  ,  kissed 

The  ascension  robes  of  Christ, 
And  for  His  coming  triumph  hour, 

Low  cyclamens  were  bowed 

In  delicate  accord. 

In  that  springtime  like  this, 
Perchance  the  softly  green  and  wild 

Acacias  gemmed,  with  dew. 

Tremulously  knew 
Their  thorny  branches  wild, 

For  Jesus  crucified, 

A  cruel  crown  supplied. 


O  joyous  morn  and  day! 
Easter  for  all  recurring  years! 

Alleluia  festival  I 

Feast  all  their  own  may  call; — 
Symphonious  with  celestial  spheres;— » 

Music  and  bloom  and  praise, 

Always  for  Easter  days. 

Passion  Week,  1890. 


TESTIMONIES. 

The  melancholy  murmur 

Of  the  sea-shell's  coral  throat; 

The  wild-flowers  sighing  cadenca, 
When  zephyr  wakes  its  notes; 


14  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

The  song-bird's  wandering  warble 

That  saddens  while  it  cheers; 
The  brooklet's  broken  story 

To  still  and  stony  ears; 
The  rest  before  the  tremor 

Ere  pine-boughs  toss  the  air; 
The  tones  that  leafless  forests 

To  winter's  snows  declare ; — 
Ah!  what  are  these  confessions 

Through  regnant  nature  grand. 
But  time's  assurance,  telling 

Of  an  eternal  land! 


The  minister's  sigral  chiming; 

The  roll  of  battle  drum; 
The  mountain  passes'  echo; 

The  summers  insect's  hum; 
The  lightning's  wild  concussion; 

The  cascade's  whispering  foam;  — 
The  wanderer's  mournful  chanson, 

Calling  for  fri'-»  's  and  home; 
The  chords  of  love  that  binds  us, 

And  sweets  of  love  that  thrill; 
Regrets,  and  strifes,  and  pleasures, 

AH  woes  that  heal  or  kill; 
The   sowing,   growth,   and   harvest. 

Suns,  seasons,  years  and  hours; 
The  voices  of  all  things  living  ; 

The  soul's  advancing  powers; — 
O  what  are  these  expressions 

Of  God's  creative  will 
But  promises  eternal, 

His  future  shall  fulfil! 


FLOWERS  FOR  EASTER. 

Darlings    of   field    and    forest. 

Garden,  conservatory, 

Bloom  for  the  Easter  story  ; 
Damascus  roses  f olden 

In  rich  and  royal  splendor, 

Viola's  petals  tender; 
Lilies  of  legands  olden; 

Iris  of  classic  name, 
Dyed  heavenly  blue  and  gold; 

Carnation's  spicy  fold, 


EASTER  GLADNESS.  15 

With  laurel  leaves  of  fame. 
Lilacs  in  fragrant  masses; 

Sweet  waxen  hyacinthus; 

Narcissus,  asphodelus; 
The  calla's  snowy  chalice; 

Pensive  anemone  ; 

Crowns  of  Magnolia  tree; 
Camelia's  sculpture  palace; 

Sweet  herbs  of  fragrant  breath, 
Blue-bells  of  Canterbury; 
Clusters  of  plum  and  cherry, 

Acacia  and  verdant  heath. 


EASTER  GLADNESS. 

{Seraphs  and  saints,  and  angels,  sing 
The  resurrection  of  the  King! 
Again  rejoice  with  praise  and  bloom; 
This  is  the  morn  He  left  the  tomb. 

List!  O  list  the  melody 
Of  alleluias  in  the  sky; 
Filling  ethereal  spaces  far, — 
Remotest  realms  of  world  and  star. 

Carols  of  joy!     *Tis  Easter-tide! 
Echoes  o'er  Earth  dispersing  wide, 
Signal  the  crowing  of  the  year,         — 
Anthem  and  chime  and  chloral  clear. 

Lilies  of  legends  pure  and  sweet, 
Before  the  risen  Saviour's  feet. 
Bend  with  no  stroke  of  hand  or  weight,- 
Adoring  Christ  immaculate! 

Roses  for  royal  beauty  grown; 
Vioicts  for  the  faithful  sown; 
Mimosa,  tremulous  for  love, — 
These  bring  your  fealty  to  prove. 

Fairy  azalea  blossoms  white; 
Primroses  opened  in  the  night; 
Sprays  of  a  gentle  symbol  vine, — 
All  these  and  more  for  Jesus  twiiie, 


16  "  A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

Gladness  with  song"  and  full  hosannas; 
Festive,  fond  hearts  and  emblem  banners 
Perpetuate  for  future  time 
Our  Christian  Festival  sublime. 


SEA  AND   SHOEE. 

I  stand  by  one 
And  am  with  God  alone; 
No  heed  of  thoughtless  throngs, 
Asking  no  heartless  songs, 
Surges  m  solemn  play, 
Forward,  break  and  away, 
Eager  to  seek  the  source 
Of  all  their  grace  and  force. 

Dead  shells;  white  shoal  of  sand,— 

Millions  of  gfrains  on  my  hand — 

What  years  they'd  count  for  thee  I 

Fractions  of  infinity, — 

Periods  perihelion, 

Nearing  Life's  Almighty  Sun. 

Hear  now,  upon  this  shore, 

Waves  chanting,  "  nevermore  " — 

**  Ever  and  evermore  "  ; — 

Which  echo  shall  I  say 

Many  and  many  a  day. 

While  bloom  and  fade  the  flowers. 

On  this  fair  world  of  ours! 

Thus  standing,  friend,  am  I, 
Enrapt  with  sea  and  sky; 
Exultant  that   inwrought 
Is  mine  with  Sovereign  thought, 
Which  none  can  subjugate. 
Demon,  or  man,  or  fate. 


•Tis  said  we  have  lived  before, 
On  some  distant  unknown  shore; 
In  a  happy  realm  of  youth, 
And  never  clouded  truth. 
Was  love  our  being  then, 
Sweeter  than  hearts  of  men 
And  woman  ever  knew, — 
Purer,  more  certain  true? 


A  SONG  ON  A  SLATE.  17 

Was  there  no  need  of  hope; 
Of  pride  with  peace  to  cope, — 
Aught  in  that  lucent  life, 
Thorned  and  armed  for  strife? 
No  omens  in  dear  eyes  ; 
For  sympathy  no  sighs; 
For  houre  expected  fair 
No  failure  or  despair. 

Did  blight  of  bud  or  bloom 
Waste  any  rich  perfume? 
Did  syllables  of  wrong 
Hush  any  joyous  song. 
Or  tender  impulse  chide, 
For  love  unsatisfied? 

None  answers:  intervenes 
Some  weird,  memorial  scenes, 
Then  Palmyrian  solitude. 
Where  voiceless  spirits  brood. 

Priestess  or  oracle. 
Shall  I  your  future  tell? 
Harps  and  organs  of  the  sea 
Tinkle  and  intone  for  thee! 
Learn  their  melody — their  psalm — 
Sing  true,  and  thou  shalt  rest  in  holy  calm 
and  balm. 


A  SONG  ON  A  SLATE* 

Among   dropped   leaves   last   autumn   dead, 

'Neath  newly  budding  trees, 
I've  seen  the  small  wind-flower  shed 

Its  snow-flakes  for  the  breeze  ; 
It  seemed  to  say,  "  Our  early  bloom 
Like  all  that  live,  must  find  its  tomb." 

I've  seen  the  scentless  tulip  hold 

Its  ruby-mottled  vase, 
To  catch  some  fiakes  of  sunbeam  gold. 

In  summer's  joyous  chase; 
The  tulip  could  not  pray,  but  well 
Jehovah's  love  the  flower  could  tell, 

•Written  on  a  boy's  slate. 


18  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

IVe  seen  the  apple-blossoms  rain 
Their  pink-white  wealth  and  sweet, 

Upon  the  grass,  as  if  no  pain 
Could  ever  sting  young  feet; 

And  while  my  own  walked  slowly  on, 

I  thought  of  many  seasons  gone. 

I've  seen  the  orchis  in  the  wood, 

Beneath  low  boughs  of  pine, 
Whose  spires  were  pointing  up  toward  God, 

Their  Maker,  yours  and  mine, 
Its  graceful  fringes  loved  the  shade — 
No  price  for  robes  like  these  is  paid. 

I've  seen  the  sumach's  wondrous  eyes, 

On  many  colored  leaves. 
As  though  the  rainbows  left  the  skies. 

And  broke,  like  loose-bound  sheaves. 
To  paint  them  as  no  brush  can  paint ; 
I  thought  how  soon  such  leaves  shall  fainti 

I've  seen,  touched  by  the  soft,  new  snows 
Winter's  first  day  was  brirnging. 

The  petals  of  an  autumn  rose, 
While  Sabbath  bells  were  ringing, 

Fold  close  again,  refuse  to  bloom; 

They  seemed  to  say,  "  We  have  no  room." 

But  somewhere  there  is  room  for  all — 

All  beauty,  life  and  love; 
Christ  said  the  sparrows  never  fall 

Unseen  by  God  above! 
Forever  shall  heaven's  roses  fair 
Perfume  the  never  chilling  air. 


CRICKET  SONG. 

Cricket,  Cricket,  Cricket, 

Grillo,  Grillo,  Grillo, 
Chirping  in  the  thicket, 

Tell  me  what  I  wish  to  know, — 
Meaning  of  your  voice! 

CricKet,  petted  by  the  Greeks, 

When  the  earth  was  almost  young;  ^ 

Singing  in  September  weeks, — 
With  your  little  tuneful  tongue, 
Poes  your  heart   rejoice?    , 


TRUE  AND  UNTRUE.  19 

"  Grillo."     'Where  few  birds  in  Spain, 
Sing  "mong  mountains  high  and  old  ; 
There  in   lonely  glen   and   plain, 
He  is  cheery,  free  and  bold, 
With  his  happy  voice. 

Let  us  just  a  minute,  see. 

Cricket,  if  you're  black  or  white; — • 
Are  you  by  the  lilac  tree. 

Where  we  thought  you  hid  last  night 
With  your  music  voice? 

Naughty  Cricket,  you  will  not! 

Do  you  always  live  alone? 
Mayhap  fairies  know  the  spot 

Where  you  sleep  when  summer's  gone, 
When  you  make  no  noise! 


TRUE  AND  UNTRUE. 

A  promise  broken  is  the  same, 

Though  it  be  great  or  small! 
By  "  change  of  mind  "  great  sorrow  came 

From  Adam  to  us  all! 


Silky  Mouse  and  Moussey  Gray 
Lived  in  a  garret  far  away 
From  the  parlor  and  the  cook; 
But  they  sometimes  crept  to  look 
Upon  the  dainties  there. 
So  much  there  was  to  spare 
Of  cracker,  crumbs,  and  cake,  and  cheese  , 
Their  little  eyes  and  mouths  to  please. 

Brother  and  sister  mice  were  they; 
Just  how  it  was  they  couldn't  say. 
But  a  trap  had  caught  their  mother. 
Their  father  and  a  brother; 
And  when  they  did'nt  come 
Back  to  their  secret  home. 
Then  wisely  each  concluded  that 
They  both  must  hunt,  if  they'd  grow  fat. 


20  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

They  cuddled  in  their  cotton  nest, 
Deep  in  an  ancient  oaken  chest, 
Whose  cover  was  fastened  close;  — 
"Aha!  now,  nobody  knows 
How  we  g-ot  in,"  they  said, 
"  Nor  who  first  made  our  bed; 
Our  open  door  is  hidden  well. 
And  neither  of  us  will  ever  tell!  " 

And  when  they  heard,  too  near  theih  box. 
Voices  of  children,  "  A  cunning  fox 

Couldn't  guess  that  we  are  here," 

Said  Silky  to  her  "  dear;  " 
And  if  a  boy  jumped  on  the  lid, 
Still  whispered  one,  "  were  surely  hid!  '* 

Now  in  a  chamber  of  the  house, 

Well  known  to  Miss  and  Mister  Mouse, 

A  little  girl  lay  ill; 

Better  she  grew,  but  still 
She  long  upon  a  sofa  there, 
Must  be  content,  and  could  not  share 

The  out-door  games,  nor  run 

About  for  exercise,  or  fun. 

So,  many  a  crumb  and  fruity  seed 
Fell  from  her  velvet-cushioned  bed. 

From  delicacies  brought  to  her;  — 

One  day,  alone  and  still,  a  stir 

List'ning  she  scarcely  heard; 

**  It's  not,  I'm  sure,  a  wandering  bird. 
Nor  a  cricket  slipping  out, 
To  rest  himself  and  look  about," 
She  thought,  and  then  beside 
Her  satin  shoe  a  mouse  she  spied! 

*'  I'll  be  his  friend,"  the  sweet  girl  thought. 
And  when  her  dinner-tray  was  brought. 

She  saved  some  bits  to  offer  him. 
And  then  reclined  her  head  to  dream, 

While  little  mousie  flew 

And  called  his  sister  too 
That  she  might  share  the  dainty  feast 
Which  proves  him  not  a  selfish  beast. 
But  what  w^as  his  chagrin  to  find 
That  she'd  found  something  to  her  mind, 
And  was  nebbllng  away  as  fast  as  she  could 
You  see  she  was  bad  while  her  brother  was  good. 


TO  A  POET  ACROSS  THE  SEA.  21 


TO  A  POET  ACROSS  THE   SEA. 

I  dreamed  thou  g-av'st  me  gems 

Of  wondrous  lustre  and  cost; 
And  while  my  still  heart  I  crossed, 
Like  one  who  has  touched  the  hems 
Of  our  High  Priest's  risen  attire, 
Behold!  a  censer  of  fire, 
Like  a  lightning  flash  of  storms, 
Destroyed  their  rapturing  light, 
Then  mantled  the  ashes  in  night. 

I  thought  of  their  radiant  form. 
Emerald   and   amethyst, 
Diamonds  all  the  stars  had  kissed 
iuby  of  the  rose's  heart, 

And  the  jacinth's  splendid  ray, 
'±hen  folded  my  hands  to  pray. 

I  soiight  no  magical  art 

My  beauteouss  things  to  restore, 
Nor  knew  I  whom  to  implore. 
My    eyelids    closed    in    despair, 
Then  ope'd  on  a  scene  most  fair, 

A  glorious  vale  of  flowers! 

Each  bloom  was  inscribed  with  a  name 
'Twas  thine,  son  of  song  and  of  fame  ! 

Thy  fancies  were  fruits  in  the  bowers! 

Then  whispered  a  voice,  "  'Tis  thine. 

This  ideal  realm,  and  mine! 
Memory  and  hope  immortal. 

Reflection  and  tender  thought, 

Its  vistas  of  peace  have  inwrought; 
And  we  will  adorn  its  portal 

With  evergreen  vine  and  bough, 

And  sybilline  mistletoe  ! 
Take  heart,  then,  friend  afar! 

Grand  waves  are  singing  to  me 

Thy  memory  o'er  the  sea; 
There's  magic  in  every  star 

That  dips  its  rays  in  the  amber  west, 

And  summons  the  vdnds  to  rest! 
As  shadows  transposing  may  blend, 

Again  shall  thy  path  and  mine 

Unite  in  one,  or  entwine — 
Again  will  I  joy  in  my  friend! 


"A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 


NOVEMBER   ROSEBUDS. 

'xAe  frost  had  chilled  and  killed  the  late  autumnal  violets, 
And  g-olden-hearted  asters,  with  white  or  azure  coronets; 
Purple  and  yellow  chrysanthemums  in    crowding    clusters 

bowed — 
In  all  the  garden  not  a  tree,  or  shrub,  or  vine  looked 

proud. 

Some  boys  were  "  laughing  in  their  sleeve  "  that  winter 
was  at  hand; 

Some  birds  were  sailing  overhead  to  find  a  summer  land; 

1,  in  may  heart,  was  thinking  of  a  distant  summer,  too, 

Where  fruits  our  eyes  have  never  seen  will  grow  for 
spirits  true: 

And  then  I  had  a  thought  as  sweet  as  any  opened  rose, 

For  through  the  panes  that  soon  would  bar  the  multi- 
tude of  snows, 

I  spied  two  perfect  buds  which  frolic  frost  had  left  un- 
harmed. 

And  hastened  out  to  take  them  in — as  if  they  should  be 
warmed! 

I  thought  their  rounded  crimson  petals  would  then  un- 
fold for  me. 

In  God's  and  Nature's  love  and  fragrant  blooming 
mystery. 

I  placed  them  in  a  costly  vase  shaped  like  a  folding  leaf; 
Day   after    day — they    opened    not — was    mine   a   sinful 

grief? 
My  buds  had  grown  too  late;  in  cold  or  heat  they  could 

not  ope! 
Ah  I  it  is  not  so  with  holy   thoughts,  life's  pleasant  buds 

of  hope! 
Springing    from   pure    and    prayerful    minds,    here   they 

begin  to  grow; 
In  heaven  their  richer  bloom  God's  grace  and  love  to  ua 

shall  show. 
How  sweet  'twill  be  to  gather  flowers  in  sinless  Para- 
dise, 
And  to  behold  them,  soul  and  soul,  seen  by  the  Saviour's 

eyes! 
Never  a  bud,  and  ne're  a  heart  shall  there  be  chilled  by 

frost; 
Never  a  smile  of  feeling's  bloom  shall  wither  and  be  lost. 


ANNIVERSARY,  ^3 


ANNIVERSARY. 
In  Memoriam. 

An  aureole  purple  fringed, 

O'er  crowns  a  rounded  year; 
To-day  a  heart  with  mourning  tinged, 

Finds  solace  in  the  tear, 
"Which  on  a  flower-clustered  grave, 
One  white-rayed  aster  b-     may  lave. 

To-day  no  memories  suffice 

To  keep  her  presence  here; 
As  ere  she  entered  Paradise, 

She  smiled  from  year  to  year; 
Nor  would  I  bring  my  mother  down, 
Where  Earthly  shades  must  veil  her  crown. 

On  some  to-morrow  yet  to  be, 

My  soul  shall  speed  to  her; 
I  know  she  waits  to  welcome  me, 

Sweet  hope  of  life's  transfer; 
No  counting  them,  of  vanished  years; 
No  pictures  of  the  "  Vale  of  tears." 

Though  buried  here  beside  the  sea, 

Within   a   Berkshire   dell. 
The  birth-spot  loved  so  faithfully, 

Regreted  long  and  well, — 
Her  spirit-thought  may  rest  to-day, 
Fondly  as  when  she  went  away. 

Upon  Earth's  dim,  dividing  "coast,'' 

The  vistas  seem  so  far! 
Yet  yonder  shines  the  blissful  host. 

And  there  the  glory  star! 
Lo!  when  these  mortal  clouds  are  drawn. 
Life's  swet  Eternity  of  dawn! 


THE    LITTLE    VISITOR. 

I  guess  I'm  very  homesick — 
I's  sorry,  aunty  Brown; 

I'm  sure  that  I  had  rather 
Not  stay  in  your  big  town! 


^  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

•*  I  cannot  wait  for  mamma 
And  sister  Dell  to  come. 
And  so  you'll  please  to  take  me 
To-morrow  t'>  my  home. 

"I  love  my  little  cousins, 
I'll  come,  perhaps,  again; 
But  I  ao  feel  so  homesick — 
I  want  to  p]  -  '^  with  Jane. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  chickens, 
And  morning-glories  blue; 
I  want  to  climb  the  hay-mow — 
Don't  want  to  see  things  new! 

•*  Wish  I  could  go  this  minute, 
How  can  I  wait  all  day? 
I  wish  pa's  buggy  wagon 
Would  only  come  this  way. 

"  Is  forty  miles  so  many 

I  could  not  walk,  you  think? 
Just  let  me  try,  good  aunty, 
I'll  only  stop  to  drink. 

"  Where  my  pa  lets  his  horses, 

Vvhen   they're   tired   and  warm 
Just  two  miles  from  the  village, 
On  this  side  of  the  farm. 

You  told  me  that  the  city 
Was  bright,  and  nice,  and  gay; 

I'm  sure  it  -.s  not  pretty 
As  meadows  are  to-day  I 

**  Don't  scold  me,  auntie  never, 
I'm  very,  very  sad; 
I'm  sorry  that  you  brought  me, 
'Cause  I  seem  so  naughty  bad. 

*•  Do  take  me  home  to-morrow — 
Your  governess,  Miss  Snell, 
Can  go  in  your  nice  carriage — 
Goody!     There's  ma — there's  Delll 


Yes,  while  the  little  maiden. 
The  country  cousin,  Nell, 

Was  mourning  her  first  trouble, 
There  came  her  ma,  and  Dell. 


JUBILANT. 

And  right  before  the  window 
The  farmer's  wag-on  stood; 

The  horses  patient  as  if  resting 
In  shade  of  leafy  wood. 

Then  she  was  sad  no  longer, 
But  wanted  ma  to  stay 
And  see  the  busy  city, 
With  Dell,  another  day. 

So  wishes  sometimes  please  us, 
Like  prayers  that  Jesus  hears; 

Answers  may  come  before  we 
Have  time  to  dry  our  tears. 


JUBILANT. 

Thrilling,    filling    fervent    hearts    with    spirit    sweetness, 
Responsive  to  the  modulated  fleetness 

Of    melodious    sound; 

With  fairy  bound, 
And  heavenly  eye  the  new  Spring  comes! 

W-oh  gentle  eloquence  persuading 

The    seasons:  with    newly-honeyed    lading; 

Violets  to  sow 

Where  left  the  snow 
Its  dewy  changes,  glad  Spring  comes! 

Luxuriant  as  happy  youth,  contrasting 
With  all  decay  her  bright  and  everlasting 

Dreams  of  delight; 

Crowned  with  her  white 
And  azure  crocuses,  she  comes! 

From  banks  of  hyacinthe  and  sweet  narcissus, 
With  chaste  and  rosy  mouth  she  bends  to  kiss  us, 

Breathing  perfume; 

Sibyl  of  bloom, 
In  ecstacy  of  life,  she  comes! 

She  will  not  leave  us!     Hope  says  never,  never! 
1  ature  and  Spring  are  wedded  now  forever! 

The  bridal  maids 

Through  everglades 
Of  joy  shall  sing  and  dance:  she  comes  I 


20  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 


A  JUNE  ]\.IDNIGHT. 

While  solemn  stars  are  sentinels 

Unfolding  roses  sleep; 
Silent  into  their  g-rass-lined  wells 

The  gathering  dew-drops  creep. 

The  bird  sings  but  in  memory  ; 

The  cricket's  chirp  is  hushed; 
Lights  not  the  mother's  ardent  eye 

O'er   cradle    pillows   crushed. 

Solicitude's  forgotten  task 
Love's  fears  need  not  remove; 

Its  wings  in  dreamland's  valley  bask, 
Love  trembles  not  with  love. 

No  zephyrs  stir,  the  hanging  leaves 

Of  arbor  draperies; 
No  slumbering  mate-shorn  lily  grieves 

For  one  it  no  more  sees. 

Pale  at  the  feet  of  regal  night, 
They  droop  their  lovely  brows, 

Dreaming  in  purity's  delight 
Of  hueless,  distant  snows. 

Dispelling  mist-clouds  lightly  hang 

In  silver  Dian's  sheen, 
As  when  the  youthful  astrals  sang. 

Creation's  pauses  'tween. 

The   river's*   gentle   shimmer,   makes 

Reflections  shimmer,  too, 
While  prescient,  sleepless  fancy  takes 

Joy  in  the  daylight's  hue. 

No  ivied  minster's  chime  reveals 

The  number  of  the  hours; 
But  through  the  southern  lattice  steals 

A  tale  of  tropic  flowers. 

O,  how  encouraging  and  chaste 

Is  every  object  here! 
Alas!  the  ceaseless,  reckless  waste. 

The  guilt  that  thrives  so  near! 


♦  "  La  BeUe  Riviere..' 


THE  DANDELION'S  CLOCK.  27 

Yonder  a  city's  towers  rise 

Above  a  circling-  plain; 
Dim  o'er  it  hangs  the  smoke  that  tries 

To  hide  God's  sky  in  vain. 


EESUEKECTION. 

Through  last  year's  halcyon  days, 
In  ruby  tints  and  gold, 
Fruits    rich    and    manifold, 

From  blossom  disk  and  rays, 
Kipened  as  God  hath  said. 

Within  the  fruit  the  seed; 
Within  the  seed  the  germ, 
All   safe   from   frost   and   storm; 

Itself  its  ample  need, 
For  life's  renewal  fair. 

Never  the  sun  forgets 

The  smallest  germ's  demand, 
When  breaks  its  embryo  band; — 

Acorn  or  violet, — 
A  future  tree  or  flower. 

Hill-slope  and  wood  and  plain, 
Garden  and  orchard  dell. 
Limit  their  mild  farewell. 

With  ne'er  a  doubt  or  pain 
For  leaves  in  spent  perfume. 

Always  their  joys  return, 

Through  Love's  creative  plan, 
Perennial  for  man;  — 

Surely  as  asters  burn, 
Life's  death  is  life  again. 


THE    DANDELION'S    CLOCK 

It  never  tells  the  time  of  day 

Till  its  golden  bloom  has  passed  away; 

Then  if  the  airy  globe  of  down 

You  very  gently  breath  upon. 

Some  children  say  it  surely  shows 

The  present  hour  by  downy  rows. 


28  "  A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

If  then  you  blow,   blow-o-o,   blovv-o-o, 
With  g-entlest  breath — no  one  can  show 
You  how,  if  rude  and  swift  you  are, 
Each  tiny  down  is  like  a  star 
In  filmy  rays,  but  not  in  light, 
See!  as  you  blow  the  airy  flight! 

Blow  all  the  down  of  seeds  away 
That  does  not  try  to  cling  and  stay; 
Then  "  make  believe  in  fun,"  or  "  play  " 
You  do  not  know  the  passing  hour, 
And  so  this  early  ripened  flower 
Will  tell  you  in  its  fairy  way. 

*T  is  thus  we  show  how  flowers  speak 
To  those  who  will  their  stories  seek; 
For  more  than  beauty  are  they  made, 
As  Solomon  the  wisest  said; 
Both  dandelions  and  lilies,  too. 
Telling  God's  work,  dear  child,  to  you. 


THE  HILL  OF  LIGHT. 

The  Lord  dwells  in  his  holy  hill, 

His  mountain  home  of  light; 
Many  a  pure  and  lustrous  rill 
Flows  down  to  cheer  the  night. 

Rills  of  his  goodness,  love  and  power, 

That  bless  us,  too,  by  day, 
As  rains  revive  a  drooping  flower, 

As  suns  sends  storms  away. 

But  God  has  other  homes  than  this: — • 

His  home  is  everywhere — 
In  mansions  of  immortal  bliss. 

In  hearts  that  warm  with  prayer. 

From  all  the  worlds  that  he  has  made. 

In  elements  that  stir. 
He  says  to  us,  "  Be  not  afraid," 

And  soothes  each  worshiper. 

And  from  his  high  and  holy  hill 

We  hear  no  mighty  voice, 
For  Jesus  softly  speaks  to  still 

Our  fears,  and  we  rejoice. 


BIRD  HOMES.  29 

This  mount  from  whence  the  mercies  flow 

We  faintly  may  behold, 
When  with  sweet  trust  and  faith  we  bow, 

As  good  men  did  of  old. 

We  see  not  with  our  mortal  eyes; 

'T  is  by  the  Spirit's  grace 
Our  souls  enraptured  seem  to  rise 

And  view  the  holy  place. 

And  though  the  mount  be  far  too  high 

For  feeble  feet  to  climb, 
We  may  in  His  eternity 

Ascend  it  height^sublime. 


BIRD    HOMES. 

Above  a  chamber's  window, 
Under  a  cornice  covered 
With  leafless  vines  enlaced, 
Sparrows  guard  well  their  coverts. 
Whence  up  and  down  they  hovered, 
While  the  fair  swift  summer  passes. 

Over  the  winter  lattice 

And   inside   verdure,    smiling 
With  promise  of  new  seasons, 

This  family  of  sparrows 
Ask  never  who  is  willing, 
Nor  care  for  any  "  reasons." 

And  when  at  dawn  they  twitter. 
And  waken  me  from  slumber 
In  '*  winter-time  "  too  early; 
I  almost  wish  the  sparrows 

Killed  by  the  boys  who  number 
Their  pranks  for  grumblers  surly. 

But  in  the  noon  and  even. 
The  birds  are  so  endearing. 
So  kind  to  love  the  city, 
Our  wintry  season  cheering 
I  think,  it  is  God's  pity 
That  sparrows  should  be  hunted. 


30  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB.'» 


LILIES    OF   THE   VALLEY. 

Fragrant,  fluted,  waxen  bells 
Drooping   on  their  stem; 

Honey  in  their  secret  cells — 
Jesus  cares  for  them. 

Bells  just  large  enough  to  ring 
Little  dews  from  dreams; 

Who  it  is  that  pulls  the  string, 
Ask  the  meadow  streams. 

Who  may  hear  them  ringing? 

Butterflies  and  bees; 
Birds,  when  they  stop  singing, 

Flying  from  the  trees. 

Almost  hid  'mong  banners  green, 
When  the  June  airs  move  ; 

Nothing  rude  can  come  between 
Lilybel  and  its  love. 

You  must  look  so  very  close 
Sometimes  for  them  there; 

Daisy  neighbors  say  the  rose 
Never  visits  there. 

You  must  h  ten  very  low, 
For  such  sound  as  this;  — 

Many  things  you  yet  may  know, 
In  the  world  of  bliss! 

Cousins  have  they,  rich  and  great, 

Lilies  grand  and  gay; 
Brocaded  lilies  dressed  in  state, 

Dazzling  far  away. 

Lilies  of  Japan  remote, 

And  of  Amazon; 
Callas  that  on  Nilus  float; 

Lilies   of   the    sun. 

**  Were  the  valley  lilies  mine," 

Sings  a  little  child, 
*'  I  would  have  them  brighter  shine, 

Ajid  not  grow  so  wUd!  * 


CAVERTT  PALACE.  31 

Were  they  mine,"  an  old  man  says, 

Walking  near  to  God, 
I'd  not  change  their  simple  dress, 

Growing  near  the  sod." 

Made  for  all  by  Hand  divine — 

Hana  that  best  knew  how — 
Neither  are  they  his  nor  thine. 

Child  of  sunny  brow! 


CAVEEN   PALACE. 

Come,  listen  to  my  rhyming  story  I 

A  castle,  quaint  and  grand, 
Was  built  before  the  days  heroic, 

And  by  no  mortal  hand! 
No  ancient,  firm  and  classic  columns 

Upheld  its  architraves; 
No  grace  of  marble-cut  acanthus — 

It  secreted  waves. 

The  sun  around  it  threw  no  splendor 

When  low  the  base  was  laid; 
Fair  moons  gave  no  poetic  lustre 

To  gild  what  there  was  made: 
'Twas  deep  below  earth's  forming  surface. 

And  earth  was  youthful  then! 
The  angels,  cherubim  and  seraphim, 
Perchance  had  dreamed  of  men. 

These  silent  chambers,  halls  and  stairways. 

All  carpetless,  are  stone; 
The  never-curtained  oratory 

Is  fragmentary  stone; 
The  dark,  dark  labyrinths  are  winding, 

Narrow,  and  still,  and  weird! 
No  light,  save  bold  explorers'  torches. 

That  soon  look  dim  and  tired. 

No  pen  has  traced  the  early  annals 

Of  this  deep  structure's  scars; 
But  here  are  banquet-rooms  deserted 

Before  historic  wars! 
The  craggy  sideboards  hold  no  goblets; 

There's  nothing  here  for  use; 
The  rugged  seats  are  cold  and  stony — 

Sofas  that  gnomes  might  choose! 


"A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB.'» 

With  waveless  tide,  as  black  as  midnight 

Unlit  by  starry  glow, 
Between  these  cavern-walls  a  river 

Passes  in  current  slow: 
Sometimes  across  it  careful  paddles 

Impel  a  shallow  skiff, 
And  then  the  flicker  of  the  lanterns 

Eeveals  a  mural  cliff. 

And  they  who  paddle  talk  in  echoes; 

Wild  echoes  with  them  sing, 
Koll  and  repeat  their  merry  laughter, 

And  whispers  almost  ring! 
A  pistol  fired  for  fun  across  it 

Awake  the  echoes  deep, 
As  if  a  hundred  muskets  battled 

Grim  giants  long  asleep! 

If  I  shall  tell  you  what  the  name  is 

Of  this  old  castle  grand,* 
You  may  aver,  "  'T  is  not  a  castle, 

For  *t  is  not  built  by  hand!  " 
But  if  you  go  to  wander  through  it — 

Suppose  you  are  not  too  shy — 
You'll  say  some  Mighty  Hand  did  build  it— 

His  hand  who  spread  the  sky! 


CHILD-VERSES  FOR  ADVENT. 

Now  one  more  year  of  Christian  time 
With  Advent  morning  closes; 

The  summer  vines  no  longer  climb. 
Nor  grow  the  garden  roses. 

The  Easter  lilies  faded  soon, 
And  all  the  blossoms  vernal; 

Then  come  the  flowers  of  fragrant  June 
To  picture  bloom  eternal. 

God  has  "  preserved  the  fruits  of  earth  " 

For  us  to  use  in  gladness; 
Each  one  foretells  our  spirit's  birth 

From  death,  and  sin,  and  sadness. 


*  Mammoth    Cave,    Kentucky.    Visited    by    the    writer. 


GOD'S  VOICE.  33 

Yes,  every  seed  that  in  the  ground 

Must  die  before  arising, 
In  his  own  mystery  profound 

Is  life  and  love  surprising. 

And  now  the  joyous  birds  that  made 
Their  nests  and  sang  so  brightly, 

In  leafy  grove  and  grassy  glade, 
Have  flown  away  so  lightly! 

We  know  they'll  come  another  spring, 

From  southern  lands  of  beauty, 
And  tells  us  how  our  hearts  should  sing, 

In  gratitude  and  duty. 

Now,  in  our  happy  Advent  hours, 

Of  Winter  and  December, 
As  we  twine  wreaths  and  give  our  flowers. 

Our  Saviour  to  remember. 

We'll  give  to  those  who  are  too  poor, 
Some  Christmas  toys  and  treasures; 
And  pray  that  every  humble  door 
May  open  for  His  pleasures. 


GOD'S  VOICE. 

We  hear  His  voice  in  every  summer  breeze 

That  murmers  soft,  and  moves  the  leafy  trees; 
We  hear  it  in  the  thunder's  solemn  sound. 

And  when  the  night  wind  whispers  near  the  ground. 

'Tis  heard  upon  the  ocean's  mighty  wave, 
When  storms  rage  high,  and  only  He  can  save; 
And  when  the  ripples  of  the  brooklets  sing, 
While  flowers  are  bending  o're  the  banks  in  spring. 

God  speaks  when  insects  brush  their  wings,  or  trill 
On  clover  fields,  or  on  the  grassy  hill; 
In  echoes  of  the  waterfalls  that  tell, 
In  lonely  valleys,   stories  of  farewell. 

The  music  of  the  morn  that  sweetly  floats 
Upon  the  sea  or  air,  from  birdling  throats, 
Was  never  taught  by  human  rule,  or  art— 
Qod  leads  it,  and  it  gladdens  many  a  heart! 


34  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

Yes,  all  the  sounds  of  life  and  nature  are 
Voices  from  Him  who  balanced  sun  and  star; 
He  hath  some  meaning-  in  them  all,  and  we 
May  learn  it  in  His  bright  eternity. 

Sea  and  shore 


BRIERS. 

I  know  a  wide  and  verdant  field 
Not  fenced  with  cruel  barbed  wires. 
Nor  any  fence  at  all; 
But  if  by  chance  you  fall 
Your  length  upon  this  open  field, 
You'll  scratch  your  face  with  cruel  briers. 

A  very  thorny  ground  it  is; 

One  scacely  sees  that  it  has  use, 
Not  even  for  solitude; 
Yet  I  am  sure  'tis  good, 
Although  few  rambling  footsteps  choose 
Its  mimic  stretch  of  wilderness. 

Three  churches  stand  not  far  from  it; 
A  city,  fair  and  old,  is  near — 
A  "  village,"  as  some  say; 
Few  boys  come  here  to  play; 
'Twas  never  called  a  playground  dear — 
The  boyish  taste  it  does  not  hit. 

"  Indeed,  why  should  the  boys  like  briers?  *• 
Some  smiling  reader  questions  now, 
And  a  boy  is  laughing  loud — 
I'd  know  him  in  a  crowd. 
Much  good  and  beauty  could  I  show 
Amid  these  wild-rose  thorns  and  briers. 

The  blackberry  spines  are  thick  and  sharp, 
But  if  you  stand  a  little  off. 

And   see   the  wild-rose   flowers, 
In  the  morn  or  evening  hours — 
Your  hat  you  must  not  doff — 
You'll  think  of  some  sweet  poet's  harp. 

How  many  times  they've  sung  the  praises 
Of  roses  wild  and  brief  as  these, 
And  told  us  of  the  thorn; 
But  this  we  thought  forlorn 
And  needless  in  their  harmonies,^ 
And  vdsh  they'd  sing  again  of  daisies. 


THE  SNOW-FLOWER.  35 

We  like  the  cultured  roses  best, 

And  luscious  garden  berries,  too. 

Because  their  thorns  are  less, 

And  they've  a  finer  dress; 
Study  is  culture,  boys,  for  you, 
And  souls  are  bright  in  virtue  drest. 


THE  SNOW-FLOWEE. 

[Harper's  Magazine,  of  March,  1874,  notes  a  remarkable 
discovery  by  Count  Anthoskoff,  in  the  year  1863,  in  North- 
ern Siberia.  A  natural  object,  called  the  "  Snow-Flower," 
is  minutely  described,  and  represented  as  springing  from 
the  frozen  soil  on  the  first  day  of  the  year,  developing  in 
three  days  in  the  form  of  an  icy  flower  that  "  shines  for  a 
day,  then  returns  to  snow."] 

It  sprang  from  frost, 
In  the  changeless  cold 
Of  an  Arctic  spot: 
Like  a  love-thought  lost. 
Its  tale  was  told, 
And  then  forgot! 

Was  the  story  true? 
Let  a  sybil  tell, 

If  this  magic  flower 
From  snowflakes  grew, 
And  cast  its  spell 

In  a  wonder  ho^^rl 

Siberian  gloom. 
Where  desolate 

The  earth  remains; 
A  living  tomb, 
When  cruel  fate 
Holds  men  in  chains  1 

There  ope'd  the  flower, 
Where  verdant  leaf. 
Nor  fragrant  bud, 
Nor  beauty's  dower, 
Has  solaced  grief 

Or  warmed  the  blood  I 

•*  It  upward  shoots 
From  frozen  ground," 


36  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

A  tall,  fair  thing, 
Where  blushing  fruits 
Are  never  found; 

Where  smiles  no  spring. 

Three  days  and  then 
Its  grace  is  seen, 

A  bloom  of  snow! 
Scarce  known  to  men, 
Its  fairy  sheen 
Eeturns  to  snow. 

Shaped  like  a  star, 
Lo!  'tis  a  flower 

With  anthers  fine — 
Its  seeds  they  are — 

A  wonder-flower. 
Briefly  to  shine! 

Its  leaves  are  three. 
With    frost    encased, 

Like  jewels  clear; 
A  trinity, 
A  symbol  chaste. 

Who  sees  it  there? 

Immortal  eyes. 
Rapt   seraphim. 
The  angelic  host, 
Whom  no  surprise. 
Or  senses  dim, 
Have  stirred  or  crost. 


TEARS  AND  SMILES. 

Our  human  hearts  must  sometimes  weep; 

Sometimes  we  laugh  and  sing; 
As  in  this  world  the  seasons  change 

jbrom  autumn,  winter,  spring. 

God  never  chides  our  mirth  and  joy 

When  innocent  they  are; 
He  likes  to  see  a  face  as  bright 

As  sunshine,  flower  or  star. 

He  made  our  tears  to  flow  as  well, 

In  some  way  for  our  good, 
As  gentle  showers  may  revive 

A  violet  of  the  wood. 


THE  EARLY  CROCUS.  37 

Bui  never  should  we  waste  such  dews, 

For  trifling-  things  to  cry; 
Weeping-  to  give  our  dear  ones  pain; 

Sighing  to  make  them  sigh. 

The  Saviour  wept  when  Martha  wept, 

And  Mary's  tears  were  shed; 
When  Lazarus,  their  brother,  lay 

Silent,  and  cold,  and  dead. 

"  Hadst  thou  been  here  he  had  not  died,** 

Speaks  Mary  while  she  weeps; 
"  Only  believe,"  the  Master  says, 

"  He  is  not  dead,  but  sleeps." 

And  many  times  before,  the  Lord, 

Their  loving  friend  had  come 
To  sit  with  them  in  Bethany, 

And  cheer  their  little  home. 

And  now  the  brother  had  been  dead 

Four  dark  and  weary  days; 
When,  with  His  sympathy  divine, 

He  came  the  dead  to  raise. 

And  when  he  told  them  from  the  grave 

To  roll  the  stone  away; 
He  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

As  oft  He  did,  to  pray. 

How  wonderful  it  was  to  friends 

Who  stood  around  that  "  cave," 
When  J     us  called  the  sleeper,  bound 

In  grave-clothes,  from  his  grave! 

Often  the  blessed  Saviour  sighed 

For  human  sin  and  woe  ; 
He  wept  in  love,  in  pain  and  grief, 

For  sorrows  that  we  know. 

How  sweet  it  is  on  earth  to  feel 

The  pity  of  God's  Son; 
If  Jesus  with  his  friends  would  weep. 

Hearts  need  not  weep  alone. 


THE  EARLY  CROCUS. 

Herald  of  blooming  bowers — 
O  white-robed,  lovely  thing! 

Thy  whisper  links  the  flowers 
With  all  the  joys  of  Spring! 


38  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

Lifting  the  lifeless  mould 
Whence  nature's  life  arises, 

With  sisters  dressed  in  gold, 
How  sweet  are  your  surprises! 

Though  Winter's  heart — it  seems — 
Thy  fragrance  has  defrauded, 

It  soothed  poetic  dreams, 
When  all  thy  grace  was  plauded. 

We  will  not  say,  too  soon 
Thy  loveliness  retires. 

Before  the  train  of  June, 

Which  all  the  world  admires. 

'Tis  not  too  SOD      for  thou, 
God's  messenger  of  light, 

Hast  told  some  mortals  how 
Duty  may  give  delight. 

And  so  thy  snow;-  leaves,* 
Of  texture  pure  as  truth, 

In  fancy's  magic  weaves 
Heaven's  drapery  of  youth. 

And  thus  meek  hearts  are  shown 
Ihat  somewhere  beauty  cheers, 

Lit  by  Love's  radiant  sun. 

Unchanged  by  changeful  years. 

Then,  Crocus  fair,  retire. 
And  let  the  rose  advance 

In  Summer's  warm  desire, — 
Ye  never  come  by  chancel 


PICKING  DAISIES. 

A  very  little  lady  girl, 

With  soft  blue  eye  and  flaxen  curl, 

With  tiny  red  morocco  shoes, 

On  feet  such  as  a  doll  might  choose, 

If  dolls  could  ever  speak; 

A  rose  leaf  on  each  cheek; 
A  narrow  dress  of  linen  white; 
A  sky-blue  sash  of  satin  bright; 
And  there  she  stands  upon  a  stone 
Where  some  gray  lichens  like  to  grow; 


*Petals, 


THOUGHTS  BY  THE  SEA,  S^ 

Almost — Oh  no!  not  quite  alone, 

Near  crowds  of  daisies  crowned  like  snow, 

With  honey-hearts  of  velvet  gold; 

And  many  buds  not  yet  unrolled, 

That  on  the  morrow  days, 

Will  spread  their  modest  rays. 

See!     all  around  this  little  girl, 

Of  asking  eyes  and  blowing  curl, 

Stretches  a  field  of  waving  green, 

Clover  and  daisy -blooming  sheen! 

And  mamma  sits  quite  near  her  child. 

Ready  to  pick  the  blossoms  wild. 

When  Mary's  hands  reach  out  to  take, 

The  stems  that  they  could  scarcely  break. 

On  what  a  merry  happy  trill ! 

Yes,  call  it  laughter,  if  you  will, 

But  I  should  say  it  was  a  bird, 

That  we  just  now  in  fancy  heard! 

So  glad  she  is!     for  now  she  sees 

The  bright  June-daisy  companies. 

First  time  in  her  three  little  years — 

She  laughs  till  shining  jewel  tears 

Spring  from  pretty  eyes; 

And  Mary  seldom  cries. 

Now  you  would  think  as  many  growing, 

As  if  no  stems  were  bent; 
But  if  this  story  is  worth  knowing, 

The  baby  is  content. 

Because  her  little  hands  are  full! 
You  must  not  call  her  dull. 
But  she  is  "  seepy  tired,"  so  soon 
Weaned  of  daisies  in  sweet  June! 


THOUGHTS  BY  THE  SEA. 

"  Thus  far,"  thou  time-defying  sea, 
With  all  thy  offering  waves, 

May'st  thou  invade  a  realm  as  free 
As  thine — to  number  graves! 

By  old  and  unrecorded  might. 

By  all  declared  of  thee. 
Thou  never  yet  has  conquered  quite, 

Nor  sealed  immensity! 


40  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

Man  must  grow  old  and  change  with  time, 

Age  hath  not  altered  thee; 
Thy  "  history  "  is  force  sublime, 

But  'tis  not  history! 

Tradition  chants  thy  restless  power; 

Old  sagas  tell  of  thee; 
Chronology's  first  signal  hour 

Looked  back  upon  the  sea. 
I  watched  thee,  one  alone,  entranced, 

Forgetting  falsity, 
And  life's  stern  ills; — men  say  they  chanced- 
They  chanced  no  more  than  thee! 

Wise  Greeks,  of  mystic  figures  proud, 

No  numbers  tried  for  thee; 
Their  science  and  their  art  were  bowed 

Before  thy  mystery! 

Climbing  the  solid  shelves  of  rocks. 

Gazing  on  mural  heights, 
We  ponder  earth's  volcanic  shocks. 

And  wild  irruptive  nights. 

We  see  thine  ancient  traces  there. 

The  furrows  of  thy  waves — 
Grand  sea!  thou  hast  flowed  everywhere, 

O'er  mundane  plains  and  caves! 

When  all  thy  close-linked  chains  are  drawn, 

By  currents  of  the  deep, 
In  evening  silence,  or  at  dawTi 

When  tempest  terrors  sleep. 

We  trust  thee,  riding  on  thy  breast 

Calmly  as  if  the  years, 
And  all  the  stars,  in  perfect  rest. 

Had  never  witnessed  tears. 

God  spread  two  emblems  for  our  eyes. 

Of  His  eternity; 
The  fair  and  far  transparent  skies, 

The  vision-boundless  sea. 


[CHORAL  AND  CHANT.  41 


CFOflAL  AND  CHANT. 

Again  an  autumn's  melody 
Softens,  subdues,  and  thrills 
Proud  hearts  and  human  wills, 

Chanting  for  all  that  all  must  die. 

Now,  many  voiced,  the  strains  commence 

To  blend  like  varied  hues 

When  prismed  rays  infuse 
Color  with  color's  opulence. 

Time's  ancient  psalmody  of  morn — 
How  swift  its  echoes  roll 
O'er  earth  and  through  the  soul. 

While  nature  garners  fruit  and  corn! 

Listening,  responsive  leaves  haive  sighed. 

Since  hid  the  August  moon; 

Condoling  May  and  June 
That  all  their  youthful  roses  died. 


Translate  the  cadence,  heart  of  flame, 

Whose  unconsuming  heat 

Forbids  thy  hope's  defeat; 
Music  spells  oft  the  poet's  name! 

Singer,  whose  lyre  is  cased  in  gold, 

Be  thou  in  love  a  child, 

But  never  thou  a  child 
Of  song,  singing  in  dreams  untold. 

Soothe  restless  thoughts  on  cradling  waves 

Of  harmony  and  grace; 

Aye,  in  the  frowning  face 
Of  hostile  cares,  near  griefs  and  graves. 

Truth  knows  thy  chanson  notes  are  true; 

Pure  spirits  taught  them  first, 

Before  a  lily  burst 
A  calyx  bound  with  jeweled  dew. 


4:2  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

Thou  knowest,  from  the  steadfast  stars 
Earth's  vibrant  chords  were  strung. 
When  first  the  veils  v^^ere  hung 

Tiiat  soften  sunset's  splendid  bars. 

They  trill  the  tremulos  of  boughs; 

They  move  the  grasses'  viols 

In  mystical  denials, 
When  fairies  would  the  fays  arouse. 

They  swell  the  sovereign  organ's  throat. 
And  make  the  cricket  sing; 
They  lift  the  lark's  high  wing, 

And  break  the  awful  thunder's  rote. 


TO  AN  ABSENT  HUSBAND. 

When  all  the  world  are  sleeping. 
When  thought  is  calm  and  free; 

In  midnight's  hush  of  beauty, 
My  love,  I  fly  to  thee  I 

When  stars  and  air  and  waters, 
Send  forth  their  angels  fair. 

To  charm  the  wandering  dreamer, 
I'm  with  thee,  dearest,  there! 

Entranced  with  spirit  music. 
We  ramble  through  our  past— 

Neath  shades  and  hallowed  archways— 
'Mid  blooms  to  fair  to  last! 

In  paths  through  meadows  winding — 
The  emerald  plains  of  bliss — 

And  on  its  rugged  mountains, 
Where  snow  and  sunbeams  kiss. 

The  morning  of  our  bridal 

Dawns  on  us,  dear,  once  more! 

We  feel  its  halcyon  promise. 
And  live  it  o'er  and  o'er! 

But  then  grim  storm  clouds  gather- 
Ay,  through  the  passing  years, 

Their  thunders  are  repeated, 
And  I  awake  in  tears. 


THE  DEATH  OF  DE  SOTO.  '  4,3 

Tears  not  of  dark  repining", 

But  joys  and  griefs  o'erflow; 
Commingling  in  the  fountain, 

*Ere  nature  bade  them  go. 

Ah!    then  life's  holiest  angels- 
Hope,  faith  and  trusting  love, 

Around  me  sing  their  chorals. 
And  peace  is  mine,  dear  love! 


THE  DEATH  OF  DE  SOTO. 

Behold  the  vs^asting  of  a  dream — 
The  flickering  of  life's  lamp!  — 

The  tents  are  pitched  beside  the  stream, 
Low  murmurs  from  the  camp 

Are  whispering  that  the  hand  of  Death 

Is  slowly  stealing  Soto's  breath. 

An  Indian  maiden  fans  his  brow, 
Her  coal-tinged  eyes  are  deep, 

Her  tears  as  when  the  south  winds  blow. 
Rain  as  the  blossoms  weep, 

Falling  on  the  sufferer's  cheek. 

Whose  eye  of  pride  is  strangely  meek! 

He  speaks:  "Moscoso!     no  return 
Shall  Old  me  conquer  more;  — 

Ambition's  fires  have  ceased  to  burn, — < 
Farewell,  my  native  shore! 

To  mortal  man  I  never  bowed, 

But  now  I  meet  Jehovah's  rod. 

*'  In  my  ovsm  river,  folded  round 

"With  Castile's  banner  wide, — 
In  midnight's  hour,  and  shades  profound. 

Entomb  me  in  its  tide; 
Consign  me  to  my  wave-walled  home 
With  lighted  torch  and  roll  of  drum. 

"  onpaled  by  man,  unknown  to  fear. 

Alone,  O  let  me  sieep! 
The  Conqueror — Discoverer 

Desives  no  eye  to  weep 
That  Soto's  watery  grave  was  made 
Far  west  of  Florida.'^  everglade! 


^  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

"  Moscoso!  hear,  my  follower  brave. 

My  dying"  words  obey; 
Cross  not  the  wilderness;  the  wave 

More  safely  shall  convey 
The  remnant  of  my  people  back 
From  this  illusive,  dangerous  track.' 


See! — Noiseless  through  the  tent 

A  savage  warrior  strides! 
His  plume  is  by  the  curtain  bent. 

The  wampum  girdes  his  sides; 
His  lineaments  with  war-paint  black, — 
The  shades  of  death  precedes  his  track! 

A  Natchez  chief  of  vengeful  laws, 

His  tawny  neck  arrayed 
In  chains,  of  bear  and  cougar's  claws, 

With  human  tresses  made;  — 
One  hand  sustains  a  war-pipe  red. 
The  other  emblem  ever  dread, 

A  bunch  oi  poisoned  arrows,  bound 

With  skin  of  rattle  sanke; 
He  broke  a  silence,  deep,  profound, 

As  noon  upon  a  waveless  lake. 
As  on  the  couch  the  gift  he  flung. 
Whooping  in  rage  his  native  tongue! 

He  then  defiant  raised  the  pipe, — 

No  calumet  of  peace, — 
The  stern,  complete,  embodied  type 

Of  a  relentless  race! 
The  smoke  he  puffed  but  slowly  curled, 
For  Soto  lingered  in  the  world! 

The  leader  watched  the  fearful  scene,— 

With  one  unear  hly  tone. 
With  deathly  unrelenting  mien, 

His  arms  were  upward  throwTi, 
Clutching  the  covering  of  his  bed. 
As  though  'twere  lance  or  rapier  dread! 

With  one  fierce  bound  he  forward  sprung, 

His  features  flashing  fire: 
"  St.  Jago!  "  "  Spain!  "  "  De  Soto!  "  rung 

With  stern  victorious  ire; 
Then  death  the  struggle  made  complete,— 
He  fell!  beside  the  Indian's  feet. 


THE  DEATH  OF  DE  SOTO.  45 

A  flood  or  gore  from  mouth  and  eyes 

Too  truly  told  the  tale; 
"Gone!   Gone!  "  Moscoso  cries; 

Tne  deep-eyed  maiden's  wail 
Rose  mournful  on  the  forest  air, 
As  o'er  him  fell  her  glossy  hair. 

Ambition!     Ruler  of  the  soul! 

When  monarch  there  thou  art, 
To  many  a  strange  uncertain  goal 

Thou  leadest  mind  and  heart;  — 
Thou  wild  inspirer  of  the  breast 
That  ever  after  feels  no  rest  I 

The  sun  had  set  o'er  wave  and  wild, 

The  noon  of  darkness  breathed 
In  tainted  damps;  bright  stars  were  piled 

High  up  the  vault,  and  wreathed 
The  ebon  brow  of  Night,  who  bade 
A  silence  chill  o'er  bluff  and  glade. 

Five  hundred  torches  flaming  red 

Illumed  the  funeral  track, 
Whiie  holy  priest  with  censer  led 

The  train  o'er  waters  black. 
And  high  Te  Deum  anthems  rang. 
And  drums  sent  forth  a  muffled  clang. 

With  Spain's  gay  ensign  folded  round, 

Still  upright  as  in  life, 
With  sword  in  hand,  by  helmet  crowned, — 

All  powerless  for  strife, — 
The  dark  canoe  with  silent  oar 
That  corse  o'er  turbid  waters  bore. 

The  shades  commingling  with  the  glow 

Sent  awe  to  every  man; 
Midway  the  dark  sepulchral  stream, 

A  signal  from  the  van 
Sunk  in  the  flow  each  lurid  light. 
And  all  was  dark  as  Stygian  night. 

As  down  the  lifeless  burden  fell, 

No  noisy  splash  was  heard; 
O'er  rippling  wave  or  distant  dell 

Went  forth  no  echoing  word, 
But  slowly  turned  each  fragile  bark 
To  face  the  spectral  dangers  dark. 


Song  of  the  Rivers.*' 


46  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB.'* 

The  wild  beasts  roaming  far  and  near. 
Awoke  their  sullen  roar; 
The  Indians  in  their  coverts  drear 
Fell  Soto  was  no  more! 

btill  moved  the  Mississippi  on 

As  calmly  as  in  ages  gone. 


UPWARD. 

"  Look  up,"  though  in  the  misty  night 
Few  stars  may  be  discerned; 

Look  from  obscurity  of  light; 
Remember,  these  have  burned 

An  eternity  unknown  to  thee! 

Upward!     sad  heart,  and  listen  long, 
If  long  the  darkness  broods, 

Until  the  echoes  from  the  song 
Of  holy  brotherhoods, 

Sweetly  surround  and  comfort  theel 

Look  up,  'mid  douots  of  mortal  sense, 

In  solitude  and  fear: 
Jehovah  builds  the  consequence 

Of  good,  from  year  to  year; 
And  He  commissions  thee! 

Magi  rejoiced  to  see  the  Star 

Breaking  centurial  gloom: 
Deliverance  is  not  so  far, 

From  the  cradle  to  the  tomb, 
Ofttimes,  as  sorrow  speaks  to  thee! 

Upward! — the  soul  that  emulates 

i^light  of  seraphic  wings, 
An  atmosphere  of  joy  creates;  — 

It  drinks  from  nectar  springs! 
Brother!  such  life  thy  own  may  be! 

Look  up  then,  pilgrim,  from  the  shrine 

Dearest  of  all  on  earth: 
Press  on,  desiring  love  divine — 

Twice  may  all  souls  have  birth. 
Thus  saith  the  Master,  God,  to  theel 


GOD'S  SIGNAL.  4.7 

Lo!  from  the  second  birth  the  crown! 

His  jewels  for  the  blest! 
When  staffs  are  laid  forever  down; 

And  weary  hearts  at  rest, 
Forget  the  dark,  tempestuous  sea. 


GOD'S  SIGNAL. 

Earth's  glory  sign:  among  the  stars 

Of  night  in  Palestine, 
Mild  shepherd  eyes  a  new  one  saw; 

Born  was  the  babe  divine. 
Man's  troubled  soul  to  save. 

Its  light  unveiled  in  all  the  past, 

Than  Pleiades  more  bright, 
With  mystical  refulgence  shone, 

When  seraphs  in  delight 
Voiced  victor    glorias. 

Lo!  these  so  near  the  blazing  star 

Might  wing,  unknown  to  fear: 
Its  lucent  beams  no  filmy  plume 

Could  harm,  tho'  round  its  sphere 
Wings  mingled  manifold. 

In  that  old  morn  Judeans  asked, 

"  Is  Christ  so  humbly  born? 
Jehovah's  word  to  Israel — 

'Twas  not  the  hope  forlorn, 
If  the  Paraclete  has  come!  " 

In  Persia  far,  behold  the  sign, 

The  promised  herald  star,* 
Wise  priests  of  Zoroaster  saw  : 

Then  journeyed  they  afar. 
To  proud  Jerusalem. 

And  when  before  its  king  they  stood, 

In  that  prophetic  hour. 
Brief  royalty  grew  tremulous 

For  the  boasted  Koman  power — 
The  Prince  of  God  was  born! 

*NOTE — Some  of  the  Magi  were  the  astronomers  of  the 
Persian  Empire.  Taey  are  supposed  to  have  discovered  a 
new  star  in  the  orient  skies,  weeks  or  months  before  the 
birth  at  Bethlehem.  At  least  "  certain  remarkable  ap- 
pearances in  the  heavens  "  at  that  period  ?ire  historically 
recorded. 


48  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

Star  of  the  East!     They  found  the  child; 

No  welcome  and  no  feast, 
Those  noble  pilgrims  sought  or  found; 

Before  the  Virgin  Blest 
Eare  gifts  they  offered  Him. 

Ages  are  flown  since  first  the  star 
O'er  the  manger  wondrous  shone; 

God's  signal  for  the  Christian  year, 
That  Jesus  Christ  alone 
Hath  peace  for  human  hearts. 


"  WANDERING  JEW." 

A  purple  trinitarian  bloom 

Unfolded  to  my  view; 
I  asked,  "  how  dared  a  voice  presume, 

To  name  it,  *  Wandering  Jew  '  ?  " 

A  trailing,  seldom  blooming  plant. 

That  almost  will  not  die; 
It  seeks  not  others  to  supplant 

In  vital  sorcery. 

Who  made  it  thus  eg  free  to  grow? 

Jehovah  of  the  host 
Of  Israel,  so  long  ago; 

Whose  prestige  wonders  cost. 

This  royal  hue,  these  triune  rays, 

Appeal,  pathetic  now; 
That  noble  race  of  other  days, 

Oppressed,  for  justice  bow. 

Shame  on  this  age  and  that  north-land 

Autocratic,  in  the  East; 
Where  base  assumption  of  command 

On  Hebrew  life  is  cast! 

Remember  we — o'er  all  the  Earth, 
God's  loving  choice  of  them; 

And  that  the  Holy  Saviour's  birth, 
A  "  Jew  "  is  not  a  dream. 

The  Decalog  in  Moses'  name — 
Heaven's  statute  for  all  time, 

Before  and  after  Solon  came, 
Insisting  rules  sublime; 


CATSKILL  PICTURES.  49 

These  and  the  books  Mohammedan, 

Hold  emphasis  most  clear, 
That  man  to  brother  man 

Should  cause  no  needless  tear. 

And  eloquent  within  a  room. 

Ere  yet  I  thought  or  knew, 
A  small  incarnadine  of  bloom, 

Sighed  for  the  Slavic  Jew! 


CATSKILL  PICTURES. 

The  fringing  vendure,  toward  the  stars 

Outlining  solemn  heights; 
Fields  sloping  far  whose  harvest  bars 

Divide  the  earth's  deligx-.s, 
In  plenty's  indices. 

Cloud  forms  mysteriously  fair, 
When  showers  depart  the  dells; 

Dispelled  oft'times  in  rainbows, — where 
No  sound  love's  mucic  tells 
To  soulful  silences. 

Orchards  and  groves  uhat  yearly  grow. 

Unhurt  by  pruning  knife; 
"  Old-fashioned  flowers  "  glad  to  "  blow," 

A  world  of  weedy  life 
In  honied  chalices. 

Homes  wide  enough  for  happiness. 

By  roads  and  winding  ways; 
Where  haste  and  app-  ehensive  stress 

Of  thought,  or  envious  days, 
Blight  no  felicities. 

The  "  hollyhocks  "  of  Windermere, 

And  «ofrasmere's  poet-home, 
Cherished  by  him  wl.  vse  ardent  sphere 

Was  arched  by  Nature's  dome, 
No  chaster  grew  than  these. 

Sunflower,  the  Nation*s  bloom  of  pride; 

Her  goldenrod  of  grace; 
Arbutus,  pearl  of  mountain  side, 

And  splendid  Zea  Mays, 
Shine  here  with  royal  ease. 


50  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

The  weary  soul  that  would  forget 
That  'tis  not  always  free, 

Should  wander  here  when  violet. 
And  pure  anemone, 
Open  their  vernal  eyes. 

The  heart  that  would  from  self  recoil. 
And  love  r^'^re  deep  its  kind, 

To  rest  awhile  from  Summer  toil, 
Should  here  new  fervor  find — 
Ere  all  its  fervor  dies. 


V    .Y  DO  THEY  PERISH? 

The  following  lines  are  affectionately  inscribed  to  our 
little  friend,  Mamie  W.  Mack,  who  passed  away  from  her 
earthly  home  at  Englewood,  111.'  July  30th,  1875,  aged 
eleven  years  and  four  months. 

"  Why  do  they  perish?— the  blossoms  we  cherish — 
The  beautiful  are  sleeping  cold  in  the  clay." 

The  beautiful — they  brighten 

When  soon  to  pass  away; 
The  radiant  robe  of  autumn 

Conceals  its  own  decay; 
The  chrysalis  awakens 

With  gaily  mottled  wing 
To  make  a  brief,  1     ef  transit 

Around  the  tomb  of  spring. 

Magnificence  of  fountains, 

Where  all  the  rainbows  meet — 
This  sapphire  gems  and  diamonds, 

Alas!  they  shine  so  fleet! 
Flowers  most  fair  and  fragile 

Are  those  we  love  the  best; 
Sweet  lilies  of  the  valley 

Drop  early  on  Earth's  breast. 

Too  soon  our  rose  has  faded, 

Only  from  our  dim  sight; 
Transplanted  is  the  blossom, 

:..o  love's  immortal  light; 
We  thought  our  darling  fairer 

In  part  ng  as  she  smiled, 
And  now  her  soft  voice  calling 

Brings  near  gur  angel  child. 


A  PICTURE.  51 


A  PICTUE^. 

Gentle  Coraline, 

Dressed  in  amber-green; 
Tresses  tied  with  coral  strings, 
Coral  from  the  sea's  deep  things; 

Feet  as  fair  as  pearls! 

*Mong  the  village  ^irls, 
She,  t^  ^  sweetest  oi  them  all. 
Was  not  very,  very  small. 

Once  these  playmates  lived  beside 
Eippling  waters  not  so  wide 
As  the  river  Illi   oi  ; 
Little  brooklet,  bright  and  coy, 
Indians  named  it  Moccasin; 
Little  fishc  s  gamboled  in 
Moccasin,  the  streamlet  blue, 
And  its  name  was  only  Shoe 
the  English  tongue. 

O'er  its  bosom  hung 

Mosses  from  the  trees. 

Vinery  draperies 

Where  the  breezes  sighed; 

Whip-poor-will  could  hide 
In  the  sycamores — 

Mournful  bird  is  he! 

Did  you  ever  see 

Lonely  Whip-poor-will, 

Singing  low  and  ill? 
On    he  grassy  floors. 

By  this  purling  stream — 

It  was  just  a  dream — 
Coraline  was  straying 
With  her  mates  and  playing; 

Half  a  dozen  girls, 

With  their  braids  and  curls, 

Ked,  and  white,  and  gold 

Dresses,  tied  and  rolled, 

Over  feet  as  bare 

As  pink  apples  are! 

Do  you  wish  that  you 

By  the  river  Shoe, 
Playing,  need  not  go  to  school; 
Need  not  ever  use  a  tool  I 


"A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

We  must  work,  not  always  play; 
We  must  study  all  the  way, 
Traveling-  in  this  world  of  ours; 
In  the  thickets;  'mid  the  flowers; 
By  the  streamlets;  on  the  plains; 
In  the  winter;  in  the  spring-; 
Vviien  the  sun  shines;  when  it  rains; 
Singing  when  the  robins  sing-; 
Merry  when  the  autumn  snows 
For  a  season  hide  the  rose; 
Knowing  that  the  Lord  will  bring 
Beauty  out  of  every  thing. 


A  BROKEN  SONG. 

"  Once  I  heard  a  lady  singing, 

*  Time  is  winging,  time  is  winging, 

Flying  fast  as  light; 

Speeding  day  and  night! 
We  can  never  see  his  wings, 
But  we  know  he    ilent  brings — 

Knowledge,  sorrow,  joy.* 

"  I  am  but  a  little  boy. 
And  I  heard  her  singing  so. 
Saying  things  I  did  not  know! 

What  is  time  that  Hies  so  fast, 
That  we  cannot  see  him  go, 

If  he  shoots  so  quickly  past 

With  a  rushing  whirring  sound. 
Is  he  high  above  the  ground?  " 

Boy,  thinkest  thou  old  Time's  a  bird. 
Like  the  eagle?    Hast  thou  heard 

jLhat  he  ever  trilled  r    cooed. 
Like  the  cuckoo,  or  the  dove, 
'Round  a  nest  in  tender  love. 

In  the  dell,  or  in  the  wood? 
Never  was  he  made  for  eyes, 
Never  like  a  bird  that  flies, 

But  he  numbers  all  our  years; 
With  their  many  hopes  and  fears; 

Counts  the  days  that  we 

Yet  may  live  to  see, 
As  he  did  for  millions  dead; 
Like  a  picture  wide  outspread, 

Swiftly  all  things  he  surveys. 

But  he  cannot  lengthen  days: 


BESIDE  THE  SEA.  63 

Things  that  spread  the  world  around, 
Never  do  they  m^ke  a  sound; 
Never  seen  and  never  heard — 
What  a  wondrous  spirit  bird! 

All  thmgs  as  he  counts,  are  sure 
Just  their  season  to  endure; 
Seconds,  moments,  days  and  years, 
Clouds  and  sunshine,  skies  and  spheres! 

All  may  sometime  pass  away 
While  he  files 
With  no  eyes 

Such  as  ever  you  might  see! 

What  a  solemn  mystery! 

Many  things  are  strange; 

Many  things  must  change, 

While  we  all  must  wait. 

Opening  of  the  gate 

To  eternity. 
*Tis  not  sad  to  die 

If  our  souls  may  enter  in, 

I'reed  from  every  wrong  and  sin; 

Pearly  gates  of  Paradise, 

Where  "  old  tin  e  "  no  longer  Liesl 


BESIDE  THE  SEA. 

*  Eternity — Eternity — 
God  and  Eternity!  " 

-'Thus  ever  and  forever 
Singeth  the  solemn  sea. 

*  Eternity — Eternity — 
Man  and  Eternity — 
Eemember  ever  ever!  " 
Singeth  the  solemn  sea. 

*  Eternity — Eternity — 
Hope  and  Eternity — 
Hopeless  be  never!  " 
Chanteth  the  cheerful  sea, 

"  Eternity — fraternity — 
Love  for  Eternity — 
God  loveth  forever!  " 
'Murmurs  the  patient  sea. 


54  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB.'* 

"  Eternity — Eternity — 
God  and  Eternity — 
Worship  forever!  " 
Whispers  the  stormless  sea. 


A  TRIBUTE. 

Thrice  hail!  my  steadfast  natal  hills! 

Fair  Berkshire's  dignate  heights  serene, 

Where  chestnut,  oak  and  evergreen 
Tower  above  earth's  brightest  rills, 
Fraternal  lakes,  and  streams  that  woe  the  sunny  vales. 

Life's  dearest  feelings,  finest,  best. 
When  mind  is  troubled,  heart  forlorn. 
Unseen  'round  spots  where  we  were  born, 

In  soft  investing  fancy  rest; 

When  thus  remembrance  to  some  ears  is  mute  we're 
blest. 

Though  one  hath  wandered  since  a  child, 

And  grown  to  care's  maturest  task  , 

If  stranger  voices  of  him  ask 
What  region  first  upon  him  smiled. 
His  heart  beats  young;  its  wakened  joy  beats  new  and 
wild! 

And  though  a  man  hath  sombre  grown 
Since  in  the  flush  of  youth  he  started. 
With  one  look  backward — earger-hearted — 
Through  contests  seen  and  strifes  alone, — 
Speak  of  his  earliest  home  you  hear  his  fervent  tone! 

Have  we  not  lived  as  ancients  said. 

Somewhere  in  an  existence  past. 

Some  sphere  by  cloudless  skies  o'ercast. 
Known  now  by  chance  to  dear  ones  dead, 
Whence  we  with  memories  released  shall  come  at  last? 

God  tells  us  not.    If  so  it  be. 
This  love  of  "  Father-land  "  and  home 
From  such  seed  sprang.    Though  man  may  roam 

On  earth  a  troubled  century, 

'Tis  rooted  deep  in  souls  endowed  witlx  loyalty^ 


A  MEMORY  OF  ST.  PAUL'S  CHURCH.     55 

Ye  who  have  lived  your  years  in  viev^r 

Of  Housatonic's  sentinels, 

That  guard  but  never  bar  its  dells, 
Ye  have  not  thought  I  envied  you! 
Favored  of  heaven!  know  ye  that  exile  joys  are  few? 


A  MEMORY  OF  ST.  PAUL'S  CHURCH. 

A  bride  upon  a  morning  fair, 
To  coronate  her  flowing-  hair, 
No  wreath  above  her  veil  would  wear 
Than  snow-drops  gathered  there. 

White  waxen  fruit  of  blossoms  small. 
It  grew  besinde  the  old  church  wall — 
Named  for  the  brave  apostle  Paul, — 
This  ornament  was  all. 

The  brother — with  no  man's  consent — 
Climbed  the  low  fences's  battlement, 
Nor  felt  afraid  that  thus  he  spent 
Moments  which  sadness  meant. 

Too  soon  for  him  that  morning  sped; 
He  saw  his  child-like  sister  wed, 
Then  hid  himself,  boy  tears  to  shed, 
By  some  strange  prescience  led. 

More  years  than  you  may  care  to  know, 
Those  faded  buds  once  fair  as  snow, 
I've  kept,  their  little  tale  to  show. — 
Ay,  souls  like  seeds  may  grow! 

Dear  echoes  of  the  star-set  spire. 
In  its  dolorous  hour  of  fire. 
The  music  of  sublime  desire 
Ascension  lifted  higher! 

Grand  walls  and  aisles,  your  counted  years, 
Of  worship,  consolation,  tears 
Repentant,  peace,  seraphic  spheres 
Have  garnered  in  God's  years! 

Your  worshippers  in  Jesu's  name, 
New  consecration  from  the  flame, 
A  "  restoration  "  will  proclaim, 
Exalting  holy  flame. 


66  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB. 


"  FOR  THOU  WILT  LIGHT  MY  CANDLE." 

If  in  the  dark  its  ray  hath  ceased, 
When  pains  and  pantings  are  increased; 

If  colder  cramps  the  air, 
And  earthquakes  tremble  all  the  ground, 
And  night  is  fearfully  profound, — 

Thou,  Lord,  canst  make  it  fair! 

If  friends  around  love's  atmosphere 
Draw  clouds  that  start  the  burdened  tear. 

And  harshly  faithless  prove; 
If  hopes  are  dashed  by  adverse  winds, 
And  these  bend  low  the  singing  pines, — 

Thou,  Lord,  hast  light  above! 

The  feeblest  taper,  glimmering  faint, 
That  flickers  like  a  wild  complaint; 
Then  lost  like  beauty  lost, — 
God  can  with  added  flame  restore 
To  make  it  burn  forevermore. 
And  ask  of  thee  no  cost! 

When  in  the  dungeon  of  the  mind 
Thou  canst  no  glowing  promise  find 

Of  all-pervading  light; 
Shut  close  thine  eyes;  believe  and  pray. 
And  lo!  the  soul's  effulgent  day. 

To  shine,  forever  bright! 

If  thou  hast  blown  thy  candle  out 
With  unpremeditated  doubt. 

And  wonder  if  'twill  burn 
Again  upon  thy  lonely  hill, 
Barren  of  all  but  grief  and  ill, — 
There's  one  can  maKe  it  burn  I 


A  SONG  OF  PARTING. 

O,  never  shone  the  Evening  Star 
So  bright  o'er  pathway  leading  far, 
As  on  that  eve  anear  the  sea, 
When  love  unseen  flew  after  theel 


A  LITTLE  ACCIDENT.  6^ 

Vvhat  sorrows  yet  to  life  may  come, 
I  know  not,  and  I  long  for  home 
Amid  the  stars;  but  thee  to  bless 
I'd  linger  in  the  wilderness! 

Thy  pure  mimosa  heart,  I  fear, 
May  Suffer  trials  chill  and  drear  ; 
Within  this  changeful  world  of  ours, — 
For  thee  I'd  gather  all  its  flowers! 

Thy  gift  of  song  not  all  may  know, 

As  I  have  felt  its  ^ervent  glow;  — 

I  pray  no  angel  melodies 

Shall  close  too  soon  thy  dreamful  eyes! 

Thy  soul  attuned  by  Nature  fine, 
Fraternal  kindred  hath  to  mine; 
It  will  not  chide  this  sony  to  thee, 
For  purest  love  is  always  free! 


A  LITTLE  ACCIDENT. 

Only  a  little  salt. 

Dropped  in  a  shining  glass 
That  a  little  water  held — 

You  ask  what  came  to  pass! 

The  water  was  thoughtlessly  poured 

Upon  a  window  flower; 
It  withered  then  and  drooped, 

Fading  in  one  short  hour. 

"  I've  heard  there  are  salts  in  the  earth 
That  help  give  plants  their  food; 
How  could  the  flowers  be  killed 
With  that  God  says  is  good?  " 

O,  yes,  and,  wondering  child. 

If  carefully  you  look, 
Many  answers  you  will  find 

In  God's  most  sacred  bookl 

A  little,  and  not  too  much 
Of  many  things  will  do; 
Just  to  be  pleased  is  pleased; 
Just  to  be  true  is  true! 


58  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB. 

This  is  temperance,  you  see; 

Be  always  temperate; 
In  some  things  self  deny; 

In  all  be  moderate. 

"  Pshaw!  that's  not  poetry!  *  * 
I  think  I  hear  you  say; 
No,  'tis  a  little  truth, 
Told  in  a  little  way. 


TO  MY  FATHER  ON  HIS  SIXTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

Art  thou  in  thy  far  "  mountain  home," 
Numbering"  thy  vanished  years  to-day? 

Alone  do  thy  slow  footsteps  roam, 
Pondering  on  thy  childrens  play 

In  summer  hours  departed  long, — 

So  like  a  vanished  strain  of  song  I 

Or  there  beneath  the  cedars  grand 

Bends  low  thy  sad  and  thoughtful  head, 

Bestowing  on  thy  native  land 
Sighs  for  its  glory  dead! 

The  dull-red  glimmer  of  its  shield 

Mistaken  "  glory  of  the  field!  '* 

Dear  father,  almost  loth  am  I 

To  count  the  shadows  of  thy  years, 

And,  (  I  cannot  tell  thee  why 
A  seal  is  on  the  font  of  tears, 

But  feeling  like  the  ocean  deep, 

A  calm  exterior  may  keep! 

Three  score!  Thy  cycles  one  by  one 
Have  left  their  impress  on  .uy  face; 

Fancy  wings  back  to  childhhod  gone, 
But  no  forgetting  can  erase 

Those  lines  of  age,  and  curves  of  thought 

By  Time's  unwonted  pencil  wrought. 

To-day  I'd  rove  that  vale  with  thee. 
And  breathe  its  pure  elixir  air;  — 

My  heart  so  bounding  when  'tis  free 

Nature's  wild  harmony  to  share, 
Would  almost  back  to  infancy 
And  rest  upon  thy  parent  knee. 


IMMORTALITY  (?)  59 

O  tell  me  not  of  radiant  bloom 

Beneath  the  summit's  snowy  band, 

My  soul  so  longs  once  there  to  roam 
On  grass  that  springs  from  golden  sand 

Where  meeting  seasons  blend  their  charms 

And  summer  smiles  in  winter's  arms! 

The  future  gives  no  promise  yet, 
And  i  must  leave  thee,  father,  still, 

Almost  alone,  thy  mud  eyes  wet 
With  vapor  from  affection's  rill, 

But  God  IS  round  thee,  ever  there, 

As  safe  thou  art,  by  heavenly  care! 


IN  DUEHAM  WOODS. 

The  voices  of  the  forest. 

Where  stately  pines,  a  id  old, 
Stand  firm  with  oaks  whose  ages 

No  human  count  has  tolu;  — 
\vnen  breezes  of  the  sunset 

Attune  their  leaf-strung  lyres, 
Eebuke  in  solemn  cadence. 

Self-thought  and  self-desires. 

Some  peaceful  so   ■    may  listen, 

And  hear  as  some  may  not, 
Over  etherial  oceans, 

Music  almost  forgot. 
Childhood's  contented  carols 

Of  sweet  existence  here. 
With  soft  adoring  anthems 

From  Love's  diviner  sphere. 

Say  not  your  heart  is  lonely! 

List,  where  all  else  is  still 
Save  voices  of  the  forest. 

And  love  your  soul  shall  fill; — 
Your  tired  or  troubled  being. 

Truth's  harmonies  serene. 
Will  calm  from  every  murmur — 

Perchance  for  what  has  been. 


IMMORTALITY  (?) 

Who  of  the  humblest — man  or  woman — in  a  later  age, 
May  not  impress  the  thoughts  of  beauty  or  divert  the 


60  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB."  — 

'Tis  accident,  not  destiny,  a  thousand  times  and  ways. 
Which  may  commemorate  a  man  and  twine  his  name  with 
bays. 

"Memorial    sketches;"    tales    of    old    romance;    historic 

scenes; 
We  note  as  though  no  century  of  shadow  intervenes. 

Obscurest  names  in  living,  dignate,  typographic  line. 
Claim  perpetuity  while  in  dim  caves  no  gem  may  shine. 

Whether  endowed  with  art  divine,  or  soul-imparting  song; 
W  nether  a  pampered  servant  in  a  sovereign's  well-paid 
throng; 

Whate'er  your  occupation,  base  or  semi-grand,  your  name 
Futurity  may  trace  with  one  who  earned  the  noblest  fame. 


A  PHEBE-BIRD'S  NEST. 

October's  latest  days 

Had  strewn  the  forest's  ways 

With  leaves  that  crowned  the  Summer 
xh  crispy  avalanches 
They  slid  beneath  bare  branches, 

And  buried  insect  hummer. 


Mosses  green,  crimped  and  gray, 
And  fadeless  vines  at  play, 

Embossed  and  wreathed  the  ledges; 
The  chestnut's  frost-sprung  burr. 
The  oak's  interpreter, 

Dropped  o'er  their  serrate  edges. 

The  acorn  might  have  told. 
Not  of  an  age  of  gold. 

But  wonderful  creations, 
That  in  its  embryo  lay  curled 
Things  to  enchant  the  world 

In   diverse   lands   and   nations. 

As  through  eternal  day, 
Our  vision  spread  away 

Around  the  Catskills  dreamy; 
Assurance  traced  their  forms 
Above  the  plane  of  storms. 

Cradled  like  islands  creamy. 


A  SONG  FOR  CHEERFULNNSS.  61 

Not  I  a  sovereign  singer, — 
O'erawed,  I  could  not  linger 

Upon  this  mountain  lofty; 
Deep  in  the  rock  below 
Something  my  friend  would  show, 

And  down  we  clambered  softly. 

It  was  a  wild  descent 
Of  verge  and  oattlement. 

To  find  the  unhewn  portal; — 
A  structure  old  as  Time, 
Arches  like  truth  sublime. 

Finished  by  no  hand  mortall 

'Twas  entered  where  the  rays 
Only  in  Summer  days 

Might  penetrate  at  noonday; 
There,  on  a  narrow  shelf, 
Some  tiny  artist  elf 

Had  built  in  some  past  June-dayl 

We  spared  the  lonely  nest 
Lined  from  the  feathered  vest 

Of  Phebe  and  her  lover; 
A  trophy  for  a  vase, 
We  left  it  in  its  place. 

To  tempt  some  future  rover. 

What  beautiful  caprice 
Sought  covert  sole  as  this, 

Unfanned  by  leaflets  swinging! 
To  find  a  bird's  nest  there. 
So  strange  iu  was,  and  rare — 

To  that  stern  rock-wall  clinging. 

Another  Spring  is  born, 
The  branches  bare  and  lorn 

With  life's  new  blood  are  panting;] 
What  if  the  same  two  birds. 
Wedded  by  unknown  words. 

The  olden  nest  are  haunting? 


A  ibOx>iG  FOR  CHEERFULNESS. 

In  hero-halls  of  solitude. 

Where  memories  and  mysteries  brood, 

I  would  not  linger  if  I  could. 


"A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

In  deep  and  dark  and  voiceless  caves, 
On  shoreless,  stormy  midnight  waves, 
Nor  'mid  the  mournful  peace  of  graves. 

For  trackless  forests  'though  they're  good, 
Because  created  by  our  God, 
I  have  not  oft  a  longing  mood. 

For  desolate  and  desert  plains, 
Though  on  their  green  oasis  rains 
May  sometimes  fall,  I  sing  no  strains. 

Tr  rock-hights  vi^here  the  eagle  flies, 
Proudly  so  near  the  wondrous  skies, 
I  would  not  lift  my  envious  eyes. 

For  thoughts  of  sorrows  nowhere  near, 
Which  on  my  path  may  not  appear, 
I  will  not  shed  a  needless  tear. 

I  love  the  sunshine  and  the  day, 

Where  flitting  shades  with  brightness  play. 

And  living  things  may  safely  stray, 

I  love  the  gentle  noonday  breeze, 
Laden  with  aromas  to  please. 
Which  mortal  vision  never  sees. 

I  love  the  hour  of  early  morn. 

When  Beauty  and  Joy  are  newly  born, 

And  Night  conceals  her  realm  forlora. 

I  love  not  spots  unknown  to  noise, 

But  with  the  birds  would  blend  my  voice, 

And  with  all  creatures  I'd  rejoice. 

Say  not  by  this  that  I  am  blind. 
To  Virtue's  holy,  serious  mind, 
For  truth  in  all  things  all  may  find. 

And  all  the  suffering  and  sad 
I  would,  if  possible,  make  glad, 
Nor  ever  vainly  wish  I  had. 

We  may  be  thoughtful  as  we  smile. 

Repentant  of  all  sin  and  guile, 

Happy  and  grave  and  wise,  the  whilg. 


DISENCHANTMENT.  63 


LOVE'S   FANTASY. 

I. 

I  dreamed: 
It  was  no  vision-rose  perfumed; 
I  saw  no  vale  where  lilies  bloomed;  — 

It  seemed 
A  height  in  sombre  barricade 
Of  sunles  pines  and  rock-facade, 

Star-crowned, 
In  Ether's  conquering  realm  of  old; 
Its  base  in  cloud  of  filmy  fold 

Was  bound. 


II. 

Again 
My  lonely  sleep's  enchantment  led 
Where  never  human  words  were  said; 

Where  pain 
Had  ne'er  implored  its  antidote; 
Where  consciousness  was  life  afloat. 

And  free 
From  weight  material  and  death; 
And  there,  lost  one,  a  songful  breath 

Found  thee! 


DISENCHANTMENT. 

Stars  of  my  childhod's  sky, 

Immeasurably  high, 

Above  all  Science  has  to  tell; 

Might  your  enchanting  spell 

Return  from  those  ecstatatic  years, 

Earth  nevermore  would  chide  my  tears! 

Flowers  in  childhood's  hand, 
No  bloom  of  any  land 
Comparison  has  now^, 
With  bloom  of  long  ago; 
Daisies  my  mother  named  for  me 
Vv  ere  whiter  than  I  yet  should  see. 


64  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

Fruits  to  the  child  endeared, 
No  apple  ever  sphered 
In  luscious  gold  and  red, 
Hanging-  o'er  the  childish  head, 
Was  half  so  beautiful  to  me 
As  shone  upon  grandfather's  tree. 

Birds,  sweetest  friends  of  mine, 

Whose  harmonies  divine 

I  love  transcendently; — 

They  come  from  God  to  me, 

Lo!  all  their  joy  and  soulful  breath 

Must  end  in  silence  that  is  death. 

Waters  of  one  pure  stream. 

Whose  mountain  birth  and  gleam 

My  infant  home  carest; 

A  heart  in  eager  quest 

Of  changelessness,  beside 

My  bright  symbolic  tide 

Sighs,  •*  even  here  to  me 

Some  grace  is  gone  I  once  could  see! 

*  *  *  *  » 

O,  other  loves  than  these! 

A  woman  fond  to  please 

The  breathing  idol,  man! 

Then  weariness  began; 

Love's  failures,  clouds  and  fears; — 

Koses  not  roses  of  past  years! 


MISSIONARY  GRAVES. 

Under  the  trees, 
Baobab,  mango,  palm. 

The  grand  protecting  trees 
In  wildernesses  calm, 

In  islands  of  the  seas. 

In  lands  far  apart, 
Has  slept  each  fervent  heart. 

Under  the  sky, 
Day-dawn,  and  noon,  and  night; 

When  storms  tend  currents  high, 
When  airs  move  soft  and  light, 

Angel  serenity, 
Holds  silence  pure  around, 
Their  mortal  rest  profouud. 


MISSIONARY  GRAVES.  65 

Lo!  where  they  are, 
'Mid  sands,  and  vines,  and  trees. 

O'er  all  shines  many  a  star, 
And  glory  that  Christ  sees! 

Where  fell  his  soldiers  far, 
If  not  the  regal  rose, 
Some  gentle  blossom  grows. 

Meek  Coan  *  lies, 
Where  Mauna  Loa's  crest, 

Uplifts  old  mysteries, 
From  green  Hawaii's  breast; 

Where  rhythmic  waves  devise. 
Requiems  for  Jesus'  child. 
Whom  earth  nor  man  defiled. 

Far  from  the  East, 
Truth's  conquering  radiance  streamed 
On  faith's  baptismal  feast, 
A  mission  banner  blest  I 
When  first  on  Burmah  gleamed 
All  christian  creeds  and  speech 
Brave  Judson's  fervor  teach. 

And  who  lie  here? 
In  Afric's  western  sands, 

And  fever  atmosphere, 
Interred  by  mourner's  hands, 

With  consecrating  tear! 
They  who  for  Mendi  sailed. 
With  youthful  hearts  unquailed. 

No  earthly  loom 
Has  woven  robes  like  theirs! 

Not  folded  in  the  tomb, 
They   shine   in    glory-spheres; 

Where  seraphs  gave  them  room. 
Where  pain,  disease,  and  sin, 
Can  never  enter  in. 


The  Saviour  spoke 
The  syllables  these  caught; 

And  as  the  mighty  oak 
Was  once  an  acorn-thought. 

All  safe  from  tempest-stroke. 
What  truth  has  grown  from  seeds, 
Of  missionary  deeds! 


Rev.  Titus  Coan,  recently  deceased,  at  Hilo,  Hawaii. 


^  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 


TEINITY  CHIMES. 

From    the    past, 
Throug-h  the  soul 
Soft  they  roll; 
*•  Come  at  last; 
Gone  at  last; 

Nevermore. 
Evermore.** 
Hear  their  braided  symphony; 
"  Ye  shall  die.    All  shall  die.** 

"  On  the  stony  floor  tread  firm; 
You  shall  crush  no  helpless  vvorm. 
Decay  is  under 
And  around; 
Eing-mg  wonder 

Above  the  ground, 
We  shall  ring- 
Many  a  Spring 

Change  surrounds  us; 
Change  belovr  us; 
We  shall  change 
When  all  things  strange 
Congregate 
And  settle  fate, 
Wither,  fade,  dissolve  or  crumble. 
Time  when  every  soul  shall  humble." 

Eing  again! 
Dividing   strain; 
Mark  the  voiceless  passing 

Of  Autumnal  hours; 
Signal  truth  and  love  surpassing; 
Is  this  moment  ours? 
"All  the  struggle  and  the  bustle 

Of  the  counting-room  and  pave, 

Give  our  messengers  no  rustle, — 

We  are  chiming  for  the  grave." 

Sound  again; 

Subdue  the  clangor; 
Soften  pain. 

And    vanquish    anger; 
"  We  traveled  from  the  star-crovtmed  past; 
We  cannot  stay, 
We  must  away 
While  weds  the  future  to  the  past.'* 


ONCE  IN  A  HUNDRED  YEARS.  67 

Soft  as  music  for  the  dying; 
Solemn  as  tablets  fallen,  lying; 
Ringing,  pealing. 
Mystery   revealing, 
Mystery  concealing, 
They're  noe  weary 
For  they  re  eternal; 

Time's    not    dreary* 
To  thought   supernal, 
Cadences  that  chime. 
Monotones  for  time, 
With   melody   repeated 
They  hold  secreted 
The  psalms  of  Trinity, 
And  echo  through  the  pensive  soul, 


ONCE  IN  A  HUNDRED  YEARS. 

Once  in  a  hundred  years. 
Once  in  a  hundred  years 

For  human  vv^eal  and  woe 

Numbers  array  them  so : 
Once  in  a  hundred  years, 

In  shadow  and  light. 

In  daytide  and  night. 

Signs  by  star  measures  told. 
Ere  earth  hid  aep  her  gold, 

Or  Eden's  rivers  ran, — 

Before  the  life  of  man, 
Ere  history  grew  old, 

For  land  and  sea 

Waited  there  for  thee. 

Not  dreamily  between 
Things  seen  or  unseen. 

Of  soul,  and  breath,  and  thought, 

Witness  of  all  that's  wrought, 
A  form  of  noble  mien, 

Commanas  us  "  pray 

And  hope  alway!  " 

Ask  now  the  stranger  year 

Why  numbers  thus  appear! 
In  measures  each  the  same. 
In  outline  one,  in  name, — 

A  century  brought  them  here ! 
Mystic  to  you  and  me. 
The  future  bears  their  key. 


68  **  A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 


SUMMER    PERFUMES. 

Once  by  a  rose,  or  violet, 

Or  lily,  prophecy 
Some  eyes  might  read, — forget 

The  idyl  myth  who  may 

Then  came  deficiency; 
With  spring  returns  of  purple  bloom, 
*T  was  asked,  "  Where  went  the  sweet  perfume? 

We  must  have  lost  the  way!  " 

Who  never  thought,   "  perpetually 

Blossoms  will  breathe  the  same 
Rich  incense,  blended  from  the  sky, 
With  sometimes  altered  name!  " 
Reject  the  myth^  who  may — 
One  flower,  the  faithful  heliotrcpe, 
Is  changeless  for  the  gentle  hope 
Of  pilgrim  on  his  way. 

The  lilies  of  the  echo  vale, 

By  "  culture  "  undeformed. 
Ring  never  in  dolorous  wail, 

Though  winds  have  round  them  stormed; — 
Believe  the  myth,  who  may— ^ 
Soft  odors  of  the  vine,  unseen 
How  linger  they  our  moons  between, — 
From  June  to  winter  day! 

Magic  of  honeysuckle  balm, — 

Wealth  of  the  summer  air. 
Potent  a  grieving  soul  to  calm, 
Love  silent  to  declare, — 
Believe  the  myths,  I  say — 
Distil  such  sweets  and  wines  as  these, 
Man,  if  you  can,  from  plants  or  trees, — 
If  your  enchantments  may. 

Like  any  luscious  fruit  of  earth, 

Flavored  for  Ed^n  food;  — 
A  benison  of  lesser  worth 

Had  God  not  called  it  good, — 

Labor  a  long  life's  day — 

So  give  its  subtle  fragrance;  then, 

"  *  Aggamemnon,'  king  of  men  !  " 

Your  fellows  all  shall  say. 


SONNET.  69 


AND  THEKE  SHALL  BE  NO  NIGHT  THETIE." 
Eev.  xxii.  5. 

No  night  in  Paradise!     No  niglit 

Where  Jesus  lives,  and  waits 
For  his  dear  friends  to  come,  througli  bright. 

Golden  and  pearly  gates! 

No  night  of  wintry  storm,  or  cold, 

Of  pathless,  drifting  snow; 
No  sunless  shadow  on  the  fold 

He  loved  so  well  below! 

No  night  by  tempest  lightnings  riven 

None  such  as  chill  the  poor. 
When  summer  and  its  bloom  is  driven 

Behind  the  autumn's  door. 

No  night  for  hearts  to  weep,  or  mourn, 

And  wish  joy's  morn  to  come; 
Nor  any  day  that  seems  forlorn, 

In  that  immortal  home. 

No  night  for  stars  to  shine  afar. 

No  place  for  changing  moon, 
Where  Jesus  is  the  noon-day  star 

And  all  the  hours  are  noon! 

No  night,  because  He  is  the  sun 

Of  righteousness  and  grace; 
The  holy  and  forgiving  one, 

Image  of  God's  own  face! 


SONNET. 

Happy  the  favored  souls  who  know  thy  sigh, 
Maid  of  imagination's  voiceless  song, 
Who  smilest  on  thy  lovers  in  a  throng! 
Happy  who  feel  thy  pitying  breath  a  tie 
Binding  them  to  thine  immortality. 
While  they  mey  live  thy  ideal  sweets  among, 
And  beauty's  tender  worship  thus  prolong, 
Dreaming  of  love's  forever;  'tis  to  live 


7a  "A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

Where  prest  rose  harvests  fill  the  silver  urns 

"With  otto,  w^here  Damascus'  waters  glide; 

Or  where  vast  fields  of  lilies,  crushed,  condense 

Nectar,  that  lit  by  passion's  torches  burns 

To  thrilling  ecstacy,  which  purified 

Unites  the  seraph's  with  the  mortal's  sense. 


COLUMBIA'S    SYMBOLS— TRAILING    ARBUTUS. 

Dews,  when  ye   silent  gather, 
In  halcyon  or  windy  weather, 
As  light  as  any  feather 

Spangle  the  Mayflower  o'er! 

Stars,  down  between  the  branches 
Send  your  fair  avalanches. 
And  sunshine,  when  it  dances. 
Soft  on  this  blossom  pour! 

Modest,  with  beauty's  yearning, 
Your  coronet  unspurning. 
Its  candle  will  be  burning. 
For  liberty  and  power. 

In  all  the  veiled  hereafter. 
Though  fools  may  scoff  in  laughter, 
And  Envy  scale  Truth's  rafter, 
'Twill  bloom  as  heretofore. 

Know  this,  pretentious  ages! 
Give  ear,  ye  solemn  sages. 
Forbear,  storm-ire  that  rages — 

This  bloom  prints  Freedom's  lore  I 

Arbutus  graceful  trailing. 
Amid  brown  mosses  vailing. 
Thy  pink-wax  clusters,  hailing, 
Thy  fragrance,  we  adore! 

Unfolding  fair  and  slowly. 
Hardy,  profuse,  and  lowly, 
On  mountain  bosoms  holy. 
Gem  of  Columbia's  shore! 

Adorning  spring-time  early, 

When  young  leaves  crisp  and  curly 

Defy  the  frost  king  surly. 

We  love  thee  more  and  morel 


^OLIAN  DIALECTS.  11 

Mayflower!     Anew  we  name  thee  I 
A  nation  now^  we  claim  thee — 
No  dastard  e'er  defame  thee. 
Symbol  forevermore! 

Rose,  thistle  and  the  clover. 
The  fleur  de  lis,  that  rover, 
These  of  the  ensigns  over, 
The  sea,  we  ask  no  more. 

And  not  deny  the  Donor 
With  all  her  grace  upon  her, 
And  not  deny  the  donor 

Who  brought  the  ship  to  shore? 

Though  all  the  lands  have  wondered. 
And  all  the  tyrants  thundered, 
We  count  our  years  an  hundred, 

And  time  shall  count  them  more. 


^OLIAN  DIALECTS. 

Man  frames  no  language,  own  no  key 

.lo  interpret  these; 
The  wide  and  wild,  blue-templed  sea, 

The  whispering  trees, 
Alone  have  voice — solemnity 

And  ecstasies, 
To  echo  and  articulate  the  changeful  wind. 

Nature  refuses,  sovereign  young, 

And  regent  old, 
Proud  mastery  of  the  mystic  tongue, — 

Not   overbold. 
For  Babylonian  willows  hung 

With  harps  were  told 
Silence  to  keep  when  thought  stirred  zephyrs  in 
the  mind. 

These  strophes  never  mortal  lips 

Wedded  to  sense; 
Such  music  as  in  sorrow  dips 

The  consequence 
Of  happiness  in  pale  eclipse 

Of  hence  and  whence. 
Is  wrought  when  wake  the  voices  of  the  sibyl  wind. 


*  Shamrock. 


72  *'A  BmD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

What  meanest  thou  that  listeth  oft 

Thyself  to  praise? 
Moaning,  intoning-,  murmuring  soft, 

"  Ancient  of  Days!  " 
Bearing  no  oriflamme  aloft, 

Counting  no  bays, — 
Whose  elements  no  Paracelsus'  gift  could  bind! 

Alas!  the  soul  that  never  sighed, 

Alone  with  God, 
When  fierce,  unharnessed  winds  defied 

The  sky  and  sod. 
The  starry  universe  to  guide 

In  ways  untrod 
Imagination,  venturous,  strong-willed  and — blind 

Spirits  of  Airi     Why  do  you  speak 

In  tempest  tones? 
Philoogy  in  vain  may  seek 

Your  sighs  and  moans, 
Counting  its  rules  and  clauses  weak, 

Building  its  thrones 
Of  chance  for  history  and  time  to  leave  behind. 

Phantoms  of  buried  loves,  forget 

Save  in  the  night, 
Tell  us,  if  such  indeed  ye*re  not! 

Tell  us  in  sight 
Of  truth,  the  far  and  storm-loved  spot 
Where  in  chaste  delight 
Ye  were  conceived  content  and  terror  to  unbind. 


A  CHILD'S  SONG. 

Spring!  spring! 
*Tis  sweet  to  sing 

Thy  praises! 
Sweet,  songful  spring. 
So  soon  to  bring 

Thy    daisies! 

Spring!   spring! 
Solt  opening 

Thy  roses! 
The  breeze's  wing 
Thee  welcoming, 
Beposes! 


BABY'S  FLOWERS.  ^3 

Spring!  spring! 

The  glad  birds  sing. 

And  lasses! 
And  up  they  spring. 
Almost  to  sing — 

The  grasses! 

Spring!  spring! 
Blue-bells  will  ring, 

So  slender! 

Lambs  gamboling, 
Eejoice  in  spring, 

So  tender! 

Spring!  spring! 
O  thou  dost  bring 

Us  beauty! 
Serenest   spring, 
O  help  us  sing 

Of  duty! 

Spring!  spring! 
'Tis  bliss  to  sing 

Forever 
Of  joys  that  bring 
3So  sinful  thing, 

No,  never  1 


BABY'S  FLOWEES. 

Who    w^onders   that   the   baby 
Wearies  of  blossoms  sweet? 

What  is  so  sweet  as  roses? 
Ah  I  baby  is  as  sweet. 

She  pulls  the  fragrant  petals, 
But  fails  to  count  them  all; 

She  tries  to  place  the  leaflets, 
And  murmurs  that  they  fall. 


If  we,  like  thoughtless  baby, 
Waste  precious  Lenten  hours, 

Their  blessings  will  return  not, 
To  bring  us  heavenly  flowers. 

But  if  our  brightest  rose 
To  some  tired  hand  we  give; 


Y4  *'A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

Denying  self  for  those 
Who  labor  hard  to  live, 

We  will  not  weary  half  so  soon 
As  baby  with  her  buds  of  June. 


DANDELIONS  AND  DLAD  LEAVES. 

We  gather  dandelions  in  May, 
And  in  October's  latest  day, — 
Which  were  the  brightest  who  shall  say? 

Which  longest  shown,  Ruth,  can  you  tell  ? 
The  Earth  bears  all  her  blossoms  well; 
How  pleasant  it  is  on  earth  to  dwell! 

We  saw  green  leaves  too,  of  the  May, 

A  canopy  above  our  way. 

Nor  did  we  think  they'd  fade  away? 

But  when  the  grand  October  came. 
And  maple  leaves  grew  red  as  flame, 
Ruth,  dear,  you  asked,  "Are  they  the  same? 

Ah!     yes,  when  autumn  paints  the  sky, 
And  faded  leaves  drop  silently. 
Let  us  remember,  fair  things  die! 

But  O  how  oft  they  come  again, 

With  spring's  soft  airs  and  gentle  rain; 

No  flower  or  leaf  can  die  in  vain; 

God  ripens  fruit  from  blossoms  dead; 
Gives  wiser  years  when  youth's  are  fled; 
New  life  from  death,  as  Jesus  said. 

So  we  from  Earth  shall  surely  rise, 
To  live  with  Him  beyond  the  skies. 
In  happy,  holy,  Paradise. 


NOT  TOO  SOON. 

Ofttimes  "too  soon" — 
(Of  some  when  dead 
This  hath  been  said) 

Meridian  comes^ 


A  NIGHT  THOUGHT.  75 

When  mortals  sail 

Before  the  gxile, 
At  morn,  or  noon, 
To  far-off  homes. 

And  oft  they  sail 
In  anxious  mind, 

'Tis  said  perchance, — 
Lest  gales  of  wind 
Too  soon  prevail; 
And  on,  and  on, 
When  these  are  gone. 
Earth  storms  advance. 

fcio  on  and  on, 
Long  cycles  flee. 
And  tides  the  same. 
Of  life: — of  fame. 
Of  joy  and  woe, 
Of  night  and  noon, 

"  Come  in,"  out-flow, — 
A  mighty  sea 
Of  mystery!  — 
And  souls  "  too  soon  " 
Saith  love,  are  gone. 

But  ask  the  flood 
Of  life  and  Time, 
If  this  be  true? 
Answers  that  come 
Will  be  sublime. 
If  you,  and  you. 
Have  understood; 
Then  not  too  soon. 
At  morn  or  noon, — 
Or  ebb-tide  low. 
Or  coast-wave  flow, — 
From  surf  and  shore, 
God's  evermore 
Will  bear  you  home. 


A  NIGHT  THOUGHT. 

(My  sister's  last  poem.) 

We  close  our  eyes — the  mystery  is  deep— 
This  unexplained  phenomenon  of  sleep. 
**  Sister  of  Death!  "  not  so  to  me  it  seems; 
Death  never  tells  to  living  ears  its  dreams. 


fjQ  "  A  BIRD  IN  LINCOLN'S  TOMB." 

As  our  companions  may.     Upon  our  shore 

Of  being-,  would  He  just  this  little  more 

Permit  that  man  might  learn,  'mid  peace  and  strife, 

Meaning  of  Earth's  precarious  forms  of  life; 

The  certainty  of  why,  and  how  and  whence, 

Created  we  are  to  die,  or  wander  hence  I 


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YC148270 


